Say His Name
by comewithnattah
Summary: Michonne meets Rick at the lowest point of her life. Will he be there for a season, a reason or a lifetime? (Please be advised: This story contains realistic depictions of racism and violence.)
1. Chapter 1: Identified

A/N: I've been sitting on this story for well over a year. It deals with the death of a child and social injustice. Some readers may be sensitive to some scenes or language. As always Richonne is the end game here but please know they will struggle to get there. In light of what's happening with the show, I understand that this may not be preferred reading for everyone. But thank you to those who pushed me to publish and thank you to the readers who give this a chance.

~comewithnattah

Identified

Hospitals are unnerving enough without ever descending into their basements, their bowels. When Michonne stepped off the elevator, she began to sob again. This was no place for her child to be. The fluorescent bulbs above her head hummed more than they gave off light. The corridor was cold and empty, just a long hallway that seemed to lead nowhere and she would have been happy to walk that hall to nowhere in circles for the rest of her life instead of doing what she'd come there to do.

She was still in shock, so much in shock that she could easily describe the feeling. It was like she'd been blinded by a camera flash. She was dazed and disoriented, holding tight to the arm of her best friend because without that support, her legs were likely to give out under the weight she carried in this devastating moment.

"I'm right here with you, Chonnie." Sasha held her up in her embrace. "We'll get through this too. Don't you worry. I'm right here with you."

Michonne's tears fell, streaming steadily down her face. She dropped her head and trained her eyes, through her unruly locs, on her untied running shoes. She had been in bed when she received the call and ran out to the hospital that frozen night with just a cropped leather jacket over her floor-length gold-colored, satin night gown.

Her mind raced with a million questions, leaving her untouched by winter's bite. She watched her feet trade places underneath her as she contemplated putting her shoes to use and breaking into a run to escape this reality.

A young asian man in scrubs led them to a large window looking into a room off the dim hallway. Inside the room were four, long rolling tables covered in white sheets. Michonne knew those sheets covered dead people and she had come to see if one of those dead people was her son.

The young man in scrubs told them both to wait there at the window. Sasha nodded in compliance but Michonne still kept her eyes on her feet. She wouldn't even acknowledge the young man in scrubs. She hated him. She didn't know him, but she hated him all the same.

She hated him for, presumably, bringing her son down into this place. She hated him for leading her down this ghostly passage. And when he spoke she recognized his was the voice on the other end of the line, waking her from her sleep, informing her that her worst nightmare had come true.

The man in scrubs walked into the room and wheeled a table, carrying a much smaller veiled figure, closer to their view in the window. Michonne still held out hope that maybe it wasn't Andre. Mike had been 100% identified and was currently in police custody. But maybe… maybe the little boy with him belonged to whichever woman her ex-boyfriend was currently dealing with.

She wouldn't wish that on anyone, but maybe this was a mistake. For a brief second she had the surest feeling that it was a mistake, that that sheet would reveal the face of a child she'd never seen and she could go home shaken, but relieved. Still she looked at her feet.

But at the sound of Sasha wailing, she knew.

Andre was on that table.

He was there and he wasn't coming home.

Michonne was now holding Sasha up from falling to the floor. She heard the feet of other hospital staff rushing toward them and taking the weight of her friend off her, but Michonne would not let go of Sasha's hand.

She exhaled forcefully and slowly brought her eyes up to see what Sasha had seen: Andre's small naked upper body, his head wrapped in what appeared to be a fresh bandage and most notably and most strange, no smile on his face. There was no rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were closed like he was sleeping but, knowing the wild sleeper he was, his positioning was so unnatural- nose and feet pointed at the ceiling both his arms straight at his side.

One hand was holding tight to Sasha's, still. It was like a tether in case Michonne somehow became lost in the two steps she took toward the heartbreaking scene. The cringing shrieks of the woman beside her seemed far away as the little boy's mother placed her other hand on the sill of the window and peered with a strange curiosity at the silent horror before her.

"Yes. That's my son," she said more to herself than anyone else, Sasha's cries drowning out her whispered words.

A woman in scrubs came up beside her, put her arm around her and inclined her ear, "I'm sorry, Ms. August, could you repeat that?"

Now, emotionless, Michonne leaned into the woman as though she were telling her a secret and whispered again, "That's Andre."

"Yes ma'am," the woman answered. "Whenever you're ready, there are some papers to sign with the M.E.'s office.

"Can I go in to see him?" Michonne asked.

"Yes ma'am. We can have him moved to another private room for you in just a moment."

Sasha finally composed herself and they went to another room with warmer, more welcoming surroundings. The fall of their footsteps were silenced on the gray/green berber carpet with it's squared shaped pattern. The office consisted of an olive green vinyl couch, a cheap cherry wood coffee table and a few cushioned chairs. The lights were softer and more effective in this space and the green of scattered house plants were no doubt put there to soothe the grieving. The decor gave no such relief to Michonne.

"Ms. August, I'm a counselor here at the hospital. My name is Maggie Rhee." A young dark haired woman in a smart navy pantsuit and metallic loafers was extending her hand to Michonne as she greeted her.

"I'm Dr. Denise. It's nice to meet you," said a rounder woman, obviously a doctor, in her white coat and memory-foam clogs. The doctor stood there looking apprehensive about the entire situation. She didn't seem comfortable at all. It was easy to see she lacked some experience.

"Hello," Michonne's voice rasped low in her hoarse throat as she shook Maggie's hand. She took thoughtful note of how she could still comply with societal niceties even though at that moment she felt like she'd never actually rejoin society alive again.

"I am so sorry for your loss tonight." Maggie voiced her empathy with her thick southern inflection. "My job is to kinda help you figure out your next steps and explain what we'll do here for your son and also to acquaint you with information for anythang the hospital doesn't provide."

"I want to know what happened to my son," Michonne immediately demanded in a monotone and Sasha rubbed her shoulder hearing the impatience in her voice.

"I know that you do," Maggie granted. "Denise can tell you what she knows." Maggie gave the floor to the young doctor almost pushing her forward to speak.

"Yeah, umm. I'm also sorry for your loss. Umm, I can tell you… uh… Well, It looks like your son may have… of course we have to wait for the medical examiner's official report… but it appears he was killed instantly from a gunshot wound to the head."

Michonne and Sasha broke down on each other's shoulders. Denise looked to Maggie, who signaled her to continue.

"Umm…" Denise resumed speaking, "There… were… uh… other gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen and also internal trauma due to the car crash."

"What the hell happened?" Michonne implored, "A car crash?"

"We don't have that information, but the Sheriff is on his way to tell you what he knows."

Maggie explained to Michonne that the next step was to find a funeral home to pick up Andre's body. Maggie gave some suggestions but Michonne had one in mind. She raised a hopeful brow at her next thought, "What about organ donation?" Michonne remembered how a liver transplant had saved her cousin's life. "My baby was always helpful," she began to cry. "He would be hap-" her voice hitched as she realized this would be the only possible positive outcome, "-happy if he could help save someone's life."

Maggie looked at the awkward doctor, who seemed reluctant to say anymore. Mrs. Rhee had pity on her and hesitantly replied to Michonne, "I'm sorry, Ms. August, Andre's injuries are too extensive for him to qualify."

That only served to break Michonne's heart further and she was reduced to heaving sobs. Sasha's tears were triggered by Michonne's bursting emotions and they clung to each other desperately.

"Oh God! What happened to my baby? Please!" Michonne begged into the air.

"The Sheriff is in route, Ms. August. I can take you to see Andre until he arrives," Maggie suggested.

After Michonne signed the needed paperwork and received pamphlets of information, Maggie's serene smile led her and Sasha to a hospital room where Andre's body was waiting. He was wearing a clean hospital gown and much thicker covers than before. His head on a pillow, he almost looked cozy all in white. Sasha excused herself unable to see his little body so still. She decided to stand out in the waiting area until Michonne was ready.

Michonne smiled with a quivering lip as she picked up his little hand and kissed it. He was still so warm. She gave a brief, mournful chuckle thinking of how often she would tell him to go to sleep, seeking a little peace and quiet, only to hear him make an excuse to stay up for a few more minutes. Now she would give anything to stay up all night with him.

She peeked under his gown and saw adhesive pads over his wounds. She counted two on his little chest, his body so small the pads were overlapping for lack of room. "Oh God!" Michonne wept in a distressed whisper, pulling Andre to her heart, "Help me! Help me, please! God, please help me!"

She heard Maggie's voice in the hall outside,

"She's right in here."

Michonne stood up pulling her hair away from her face and wiping her tears yet never seeming to be able to dry her eyes.

"Ms. August, this is Sheriff Grimes." Maggie gave introductions. "This is Ms. August."

Rick's tired eyes focused in on the victim's mother. Every feature of her face was swollen from crying, her eyebrows lifted in a straight line across her forehead she wordlessly begged him for help.

Michonne gave no greeting, but she slowly reached out for his hand, creating a bridge between the older man with an accelerating heartbeat and the young boy whose heart would never beat again. With a look, somehow both weak and powerful, she pulled him toward her child's bedside and her gentle demeanor gave way as she spoke abruptly, "Sheriff, you need to tell me right now- what happened to my child. What happened?"

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry for your loss…" Sheriff Grimes started out in an melancholy tone, his large brown felt patrol hat hanging in his other hand. Unconsciously, he pulled her back in his direction with a nearly imperceptible tug, as if on a reflex to separate her from any pain.

"Never mind all that!" Michonne interrupted, disconnecting her hand from his, "Tell me! I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand!" She chanted, curling into a ball as she fell back into her seat still holding tight to Andre's tiny fingers.

Sheriff Grimes approached her, carrying a chair from the other side of the room. He sat down next to her and placed his hand on her back. Trying to console her, he gently rubbed his hand back and forth over her shoulders.

"Ma'am. We are still investigatin' and question'n witnesses… but from what I know so far, it looks like Michael Lancey," Rick answered, for some reason holding his breath before he asked, "… your boyfriend?" The sheriff couldn't have said why her answer gave him permission to exhale.

"My ex." Michonne bit back with rancor directed at the simple utterance of Mike's name.

"Yes ma'am," the sheriff acceded. "Well it looks like he was pulled over for a routine traffic violation. It appears that when Mr. Lancey was asked to step out of the vehicle, he tried to assault the deputies on scene with his vehicle."

"What?! With my baby in the car?"

"Yes ma'am. Unfortunately, Andre was in the backseat, unrestrained. The deputies on the scene opened fire to stop him from fleein' the scene and your son was subsequently hit." Sheriff Grimes walked her through what he knew.

"So they just opened fire with my five year old baby in the car?" Michonne asked indignantly.

The Sheriff drew his mouth into a ball before he answered, "I am sorry ma'am. It's my understand'n that they were unaware your son was in the back seat."

"Well they need to be aware, don't they?! They need to be aware before they start shooting! Y'all just can't kill enough black men can you?! So bored with killing all these black men you gotta come for my baby? Huh?"

Michonne fumed, thinking of all the headlines she had seen. She knew one day Andre would be a target for police. But more realistically and presently, odds were, it could be Mike who met the wrong cop at the wrong time.

She would say to herself, One day I'll have to explain to my son that his daddy is dead and why. How can I keep him from his father's path? And she would be happy to know she still had years to prepare for worries like that. She never thought her innocent, Captain America–loving, Oreo-stealing, air guitar-playing little boy would ever come into contact with the police like this.

"Look at him!" Michonne tried to scream but emotion choked her. She pointed to his tiny lifeless body, "He never hurt nobody! He NEVER did anything to anybody! You know he wanted to BE a cop? He wanted to be a police officer... to help people. He's nobody to you, I get it. Just another black boy with no future anyway right?" She chuckled mindlessly at the irony. "I can't do this! I can't." Michonne came to an exhausted conclusion and panicked, overcome with tears. "He was so good. Too good for this! My baby was too good for this."

"Yes ma'am." Sheriff Grimes simply agreed politely without thinking about his reply as he reached into his back pocket to pull out a handkerchief and handed it over. The sheriff could only bow his head with her in sympathy.

What threat could the little one he saw stretched out before him be to two armed and trained officers? None. He knew that. Unfortunately, the boy had the bad luck of having rotten paternity, it seemed.

"So that's it?" Michonne barked as her face twitched and quivered in anger, "You just come in here to tell me that you killed my little boy and… and what… 'have a nice life'?"

"No. Ms. August." Sheriff Grimes answered sincerely, "I came to tell you that anythang you need from my department… any way we can help… anything I can do personally, don't hesitate," he said offering her his card. "You call me directly."

Michonne took the card and wiped her eyes and nose with the neatly folded cut of white cotton fabric. She didn't answer, only turned her back to him putting her focus again on the little boy she would love forever.

Sheriff Grimes stood up to leave. He paused in his walk to the door wanting to say more, but he left without attempting to. He decided he would have the opportunity to do and say much more because he wouldn't forget her. He wouldn't forget that she was out there, broken in a broken world.


	2. Chapter 2: Riot

Riot

"Please explain to me how you could fuck this up so bad," Sheriff Grimes demanded from the deputies in front of him. Deputies Merle Dixon and Shane Walsh's names had been on the TV screen for the past week. Every time frustration overwhelmed him in their presence, rhetorically, he'd ask them the same thing.

Sheriff Grimes' department was under an intense microscope and the hard-earned confidence the community had in him and his colleagues was eroding every day the two of them weren't charged with murder. The Sheriff never really cared for Merle, truth be told, he was barely tolerable.

But Shane was his best friend since police academy training. A natural born slacker and professional charmer, he and Rick had been through a lot together. But now the sheriff laid into the two of them with unprecedented fury, causing Shane to lower his head. Merle, on the other hand, was defiant.

"I don't know what else we can say. The fuckin' guy tried to run me over!" Merle said in his own defense. "Do you want a high speed chase on the streets of this town? That was the only other option."

"Let's see," Grimes said sarcastically pretending to think hard on it. "Yes!" he snapped, "I'd much rather prefer it to a dead kid!"

"Could have been a bunch of dead kids 'stead of just one," Merle fired back. "And a few blocks over from the crime scene, which is where that n-..." Rick gave Merle a curious, threatening stare, "...asshole was headed, by the way, the little kids in danger would have been kids just like Carl and Judith."

"Come on, man." Shane shifted uncomfortably in his seat and frowned at Merle's point, trying to shush him, "Don't…"

Rick wanted to make sure he was hearing what he thought he was hearing. "I know you wouldn't be tryin' to imply that the current situation is less tragic because our innocent five year old victim doesn't look like my kids… Deputy Dixon, please explain what you're sayin' so I can understand it c'rrectly."

"Look Rick," Merle started with a disingenuous smile.

"Sheriff Grimes!" Rick corrected him.

Merle looked over at his partner but Shane shook his head, leaving him at the boss' mercy. "Look, Sheriff Grimes." Merle used his title but without a hint of respect. Rick pondered for a second how lucky Merle was that the width of his desk stood between them. "A tragedy is a tragedy. But a black boy gettin' shot in the car with his drug-runnin' daddy ain't as bad as a rosy cheeked little girl gettin' run over by that same criminal. Let's don't pretend like we don't know where we're at," he said smugly.

Rick was rendered speechless for a moment, raging inside as he looked into Merle's beady eyes. "You're dismissed Officer Dixon." He spoke through his teeth, involuntarily cocking his head to relieve the angry stiffness in his neck. Merle got up in a huff and left the sheriff's office without another word. "You too," he directed Shane.

Shane raised his palms in surrender, "Okay, Rick. Merle is an asshole. We both know that. Now, I ain't sayin' he's right 'bout what he's sayin', but he was just tryin' to do his job, same as me. And since our job is to stop the bad guy…" Shane shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm gonna pretend you left with him and never said that. Since you didn't see that little boy's mother cryin' over her baby's dead body, I'm gonna chock that up to sleep deprivation. 'Cause I know you haven't been able to sleep 'cause you're racked with guilt over this whole thang." Rick squinted at Shane with disappointed eyes. "Since I know my best friend would never agree with anythang so disgustin', we can just leave this conversation at 'You're dismissed.' You should use your Admin Leave to get some rest... avoid talkin' outta ya head."

Later that evening the internal investigation cleared Dixon and Walsh of any wrongdoing, effectively mixing Rick's feelings. He had called his younger but wiser little sister for moral support to come to grips with what he was about to do before coming out into the cold November night and informing the press of the investigative findings.

He took no questions, keeping his head down to avoid the glare of the camera-men's lights. He simply made his statement and, though the reporters clamored over each other with snide 'follow up questions', he gave them nothing. Words were thick on his tongue as he tried to say the phrase "no wrongdoing", because a dead little boy, and a childless mother were two of his primary definitions for wrong.

But there was no evidence to suggest that his officers had used excessive force given the information they had at the time they opened fire. They didn't know Andre was in the back of the car. He believed things would have been different, had they known. Even though Merle was backwards thinking redneck scum, he knew Shane, and if they'd had any other choice…

Rick Grimes had to use his service weapon once. Those events unfolded to make him a hero. A 17 year old black kid in the middle of a corner store robbery happened to collide with Rick while he was armed and headed to work.

The 87 year old store clerk had been shot and was bleeding out behind the counter when- at the time- Officer Grimes, decided to stop for a pack of chewing gum. The clerk made it to the hospital in time and recovered, the suspect was taken into custody and Officer Grimes was celebrated for his bravery. He found out later that the kid had panicked when the clerk reached for the old revolver he kept under the counter, they struggled over the weapon- each one scared the other would kill him- when the gun finally went off.

The young kid fired by accident. Even the clerk had testified to that. But all you hear in the news was 'armed black man' and 'attempted murder'. The truth was finally hashed out in court but the media's story had already told the public who Dontaye Evans was. Along with the $87 he lifted out the register, the brand new father- who had never had a father of his own- was trying to leave with a bag full of baby formula and pampers.

Rick managed to apprehend the suspect without killing him, but the young man only lived three days past his sentencing, when he was beaten to death during a fight in the correction facility he was sent to. Officer Grimes felt some answerability for that. Expounded by the fact that the mother of the young man had personally and tearfully thanked him for doing right by her son.

That mother knew that, especially in the south, other officers would have left her son riddled with bullets and a posthumous legacy of being nothing more than a criminal. She told Rick that she was grateful that her son would now, at least, have a second chance and be able to watch his own child grow up. It broke Rick up when that wasn't how things turned out.

Thank God for Shane and his whisky during that time. Thank God for his corny jokes and outrageous stories about the women he was seeing or chasing. Shane was the only one Rick was close to who understood the pressures on a cop. He wouldn't burden Lori, who helped him to bed more, often than not, wreaking of alcohol.

A few months later when the guilt really settled over him and he found it hard to look his son in the eye, his wife found out she was pregnant again. And Rick flailed about helplessly in the universe's cruel joke that one of the few times Lori pitied him enough to sleep with him, she got pregnant and then she got distant and it was pretty much over between them before the little girl was even born.

They lived in that hell for nearly two years. So the mangled remains of Officer Grimes left the department of that large city in Georgia and, with his notoriety, was elected over the aging incumbent as the County Sheriff in a much smaller, slower jurisdiction. Out of that toxic relationship and doing the job he loved, with a good crew of officers- actually having a bond with the community and making a difference sometimes- Rick was unbelievably making his way back.

But now he had that nauseating feeling creeping up his throat. He could feel what was coming as news in the area traveled fast about his deputies not being charged. Even though they had acted in accordance with their training, a little boy was still dead. Rick knew it was an impossibility for this to just quietly blow over with the next day's news cycle. Not more than an hour after Sheriff Grimes had addressed the media, a mob of angry protesters began to converge on the precinct. The sheriff kept an eye on things, not wanting to send any officers out to stir up more conflict, but his hand was forced when the number of people grew to triple digits. They were blocking the street and beginning to vandalize the buildings and police cruisers outside.

"Okay," Rick said reluctantly to the few officers in the precinct at the time, "Let's all go out there. People are just upset and actin' off emotion. But they're still our neighbors and our responsibility and, for the most part, they're decent people. If we go out and make a presence," he stressed, "...calm and dignified presence, we may be able to keep this night from goin' south. I don't want anyone to engage them… just keep an eye out for anyone doin' anythang that could hurt someone else. Whatever they break or destroy, well, we'll take that loss for the sake of peace on these streets between us and them. Am I clear?"

The six of them nodded quietly and nervously in agreement. They helped each other put on their vests and helmets, exiting the front of the station cautiously. Every one of them was his friend. Abraham Ford, Carol Peletier, Shane and Merle were holdovers from the former sheriff. Rick wished at least one of them was there to back him up with the wisdom of years and experience.

Instead, he had Rosita Espinosa, Theodore Douglass, Jerry Samuels, Noah Wesley, Tara Chambler. All interviewed and hired by Sheriff Grimes, himself. What they may have lacked in experience, they made up for in bravery, loyalty and intelligence.

He knew their families, cared about their safety and their honor. Deciding to jeopardize their safety to uphold their honor was not an easy choice. Especially when the newbie on the force was Merle Dixon's kid brother, Daryl. Sheriff Grimes stayed close by his side as the young man seemed more skittish than the rest of them.

Anyone who knew he was related to one of the officers in question might want to make him a special target. Rick had seriously contemplated letting the brooding baby-faced officer ride this one out inside, but he was short his four most seasoned officers and he needed the numbers.

Once outside, they all spread out to the sidewalk just in front of the station. They were met with boos and insults, but nothing physical- not yet. Directly across the street, at Robinson Park, some yards away, Rick could see a truck had been driven onto the grass. Standing in the bed of the truck was a little woman with a ponytail of tight black curls screaming into a megaphone, gesturing wildly. He remembered that he'd seen her at the hospital when he met Andre's mother.

"…our black men deserve more!" Her voice echoed through the speaker, "My godson was born with a future granted to him by his creator! Just like every other black boy born to black mothers and black fathers." The crowd agreed with fervor. "America is a place where people come to build their future and follow their dreams… Unless you're a black man or one day will be. If you're a black man or on your way to becoming one, listen up!" The crowd responded, beginning to surge. "If you're a black man or will be a black man: America already has a future planned for you. It was planned for you over 200 years ago. And they've been good about following the plan!"

The woman with the ponytail wasn't alone. There was also a man in the bed of the truck. A bear-sized black man stood near the woman on the bullhorn. His back was turned to Rick but his posture suggested he was holding something in his hands. The big guy paid rapt attention right along with the expanding crowd. Rick could see her words were full of pain but also full of hate. The crowd was swelling to a dangerous pitch, exciting the news reporters who had been there for the sheriff's press conference.

"I wish I could get administrative leave for doing some fucked-up shit at work. If I'm late for work more than three times, I'm fired. That's it! But if you got a badge, you can even kill people and keep your job. You can rob innocent babies of their future and still look forward to a comfortable future of your own!"

Sasha noticed the police had exited the station. So she turned to heckle them, "Ain't that right Sheriff? Your deputies are above the law, right?" She drilled sarcastically, expecting him to shrink back. "Come tell us how their future has changed, because my godson is dead. His future is done! Come on up here…" She thrust the megaphone in his direction and all the people in the park and the street taunted him in unison.

Rick felt the sting of her words in his spine. He could not bear being lumped in with that assessment of law even though he knew he was guilty by association in the eyes of every one there. He was going to disregard the direction he had given his subordinates, even though the practicality of a silent presence stood. It was like an out of body experience as he removed his helmet, walked across the street thru all the rage.

That's when he saw what the big guy was holding. Standing there shivering under her fur-trimmed hoodie, with the man's two large hands on her shoulders was a teary-eyed Ms. August.

His heart sank when he saw her face. He almost lost the string of words he compiled during his short walk over the asphalt to the dead grass in the park under his feet. It caught him completely off guard to see her there above him. Though really he should have known after their meeting the other night that she had a fire in her that needed to breathe and what better place to stoke it than right outside his door? She seemed more angry but less sad and somehow that comforted him. He couldn't explain it.

Rick removed his helmet and reached up to Sasha for the megaphone. Hesitantly, Sasha handed it over to him and he fumbled with the mechanism but finally turned it on and turned to the crowd. He sighed before he attempted to speak. The crowd gathered made sure he knew they had no intention to actually listen to anything he had to say.

"I know you guys are pissed at me and everyone who wears this uniform. You have every right to be... not that you need my permission to feel the way you do. But I... I wanna acknowledge it. I'm a father. I have kids."

"Fuck yo kids, nigga!" A deep angry voice broke from the crowd, the vitriol shaking Michonne and turning her stomach.

Rick swallowed hard, biting his tongue and continued. "My most pressin' daily concern is keepin'em safe. And when I was elected as Sheriff here, all your children became my children too… to keep safe."

Sasha screamed at his back, "Then why is my godson dead? How'd that happen?"

Rick turned to look at her with eyes blue in mood and in color. But his gaze ultimately drifted toward Michonne, who knotted her brow in confusion at what he hoped to accomplish by trying to address all these irate people. Michonne pulled Sasha back and whispered, "Let him talk," and nodded to Rick to continue.

Rick saw that state police and a SWAT team were moving into positions. He desperately didn't want this to become anymore ugly than it already was. So he spoke to not only the protestors, but also the law enforcement on the scene. "Andre is gone because of fear, miscommunication, division… the usual culprits in every tragedy. And the young woman behind me asked if the future of the deputies involved has changed. Well, whether we want to admit it or not, every time a life is lost to violence, all our futures change."

A woman screamed from the mash of people, "Don't nothin' change for you! Y'all don't care about us."

Rick dropped his head and took another deep breath, "I- I talked to Andre's teacher." He gave a faint smile remembering their conversation. "She told me Andre was the class clown and a star student. His teacher, Miss Ryan, said it's rare to see that combination in a child: playful but hardworkin'. But that's what he was. She showed me his work and his student of the month picture hangin' in her class."

Michonne was overcome with emotion again, remembering how proud her son was about being student of the month- for the second time in only four months of school. She remembered how Miss Ryan had thanked her for raising Andre to be so respectful and diligent and happy. At the last parent/teacher conference Miss Ryan had talked almost the entire time about her sweet little boy, even making some of the other parents noticeably jealous.

"His teacher, her future is changed. His best friend Terry told me that Andre helped him with his numbers at school and always shared his lunch. Terry's future is changed," Rick said with certainty.

The crowd was beginning to still and listen. Michonne recalled how Terry would be at her house every weekend. Terry would always be in trouble but she would hear Andre trying to talk sense to him on more than one occasion. Andre would repeat to Terry the same rules Michonne had given to him. Terry would listen to her son's advice before he would listen to anyone else. What would happen to Terry now? Who would rein him in?

"I talked to his beautiful mother." Rick looked to Michonne again. She was taken aback by his description of her. "I can't really call it a talk since I didn't say much. But she told me Andre wanted to be a cop. She said he wanted to help people. That's why we join the force- to help. And I know we've all been in a situation where we tried to help and ended up makin' thangs worse. The intention doesn't take away the consequences of our actions. But, your intentions should have a bearin' on whether or not you're forgiven."

Rick made the plea from his heart. "The deputies involved in this accident will never be the same. You can't take a life, even in the line of duty, and it not affect you. But when it's a child that gets hurt, believe me, it's devastatin'." Rick spoke of his own feelings, at the same time Merle's hateful smirk, from their conversation earlier, flashed in his mind. It made him sick.

Even at Michonne's request, Sasha couldn't hold back, "But they still free! They still get to go home and sleep in their beds tonight," she shouted.

Rick hated that that was indeed the reality of the situation. There wasn't any way to back up his officers without bringing up the actions of the driver of the car and he couldn't mention the driver of the car without indirectly blaming Andre for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. He looked back at Sasha searching the ire on her face for a soft place that might give him a break. She had no such softness at the moment.

A livid, "Go home wit'um, bitch!" announced the launch of a metal park trash can as it came crashing down onto Sheriff Grimes' head and shoulder.

The other officers rushed in, trying to restrain the man who threw it. Other protesters took the opportunity to sucker punch anyone in a uniform and with that, a full on riot commenced.

A cut to the Sheriff's crown trickled blood into his face, he looked up at the big black guy, who was shielding Michonne and Sasha from any stray projectile that might make it's way past him. "Is this your truck?" Rick asked him, shouting over the chaos. Tyreese nodded. "Get them out of here, before she gets hurt".

Leaving no ambiguity as to which 'she' he was referring to, Rick lifted his helmet to Michonne. "Put this on," he instructed her. She took the helmet but was so dumbstruck by what was happening she only stood there flinching at the turmoil and looking down at the Sheriff's urgent expression.

Sasha was already in the cab of the truck turning over the ignition.

"Come on!" Tyreese shouted and hopped down toward the truck door, reaching back up to Michonne. Her eyes were locked on Rick as Tyreese grabbed her out the back of the truck and threw her in the seat next to Sasha. They drove off from the pandemonium.

"That white boy crazy!" Tyreese glanced briefly at the rear view mirror.

"His crazy ass gon' get fucked up out there, too," Sasha commented, looking straight ahead.

Michonne's eyes stayed focused on the only motionless figure in the rear window and his eyes stayed focused on the only face in the truck turned in his direction.


	3. Chapter 3: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Sasha was the first person Michonne called when she was on her way to the hospital, hysterical and in tears. They had been friends since 7th grade majorette band practice. From there, they did life together. It was sleepovers and Saturday morning cartoons with Frosted Flakes for the two best friends who only ever giggled and loved each other.

Sasha's first time with a boy, Michonne had been the look-out in case Mrs. Williams came home from work early. The newly deflowered teenager spared no detail about the clumsy encounter. The concepts of chastity and rationale had been drilled into Michonne by her parents and she was thoroughly scandalized.

Still, Sasha's nonchalant attitude toward her virginity inspired admiration from her more sheltered friend. It seemed less like irresponsible immaturity and more like adventurous free agency to naive eyes, which translated into Sasha becoming the de facto leader of the duo. Michonne's cherry stayed unpopped a good while longer. So when Michonne's boyfriend, Ronald Smalls, decided to go to prom with a girl more likely to put out, Sasha dropped her date and went with Michonne.

Ronnie never actually made it to prom because Sasha put her brawny brother to work like a mob boss calls in the muscle. Tyreese made that unassuming cheater's eye match his black tuxedo while he stood taking pictures with another girl in front of his apartment building. While Michonne was home applying mascara, her ankle-biter friend was chasing Ron's date down the street promising her an ass whooping if she tried to step one sparkly heel into the Marriott ballroom.

Sasha would have been prom queen were it not for loyalty to Michonne. Her name was taken out of the running because the roughed up cheater snitched. The playboy of Anderson High, Mark Vincent, would've been Sasha's date. He was prom king by the end of the night and pissed that another girl wore the crown. But Sasha was happy just dancing with her best friend.

When they sent out college applications, they didn't even consider certain schools unless they were both accepted. The four years flew and by graduation day they had helped each other through Sasha's step-dad leaving her mom and little sisters, Andre's birth, Michonne's burn out from working full-time to pay her way through school and Sasha's breakdown after being sexually assaulted at a party.

Sasha was never one to back down from a fight, but in that moment she was frozen in disbelief. A guy who seemed so harmless, in his Perry Ellis boat shoes and pastel polo shirt, had the unabashed gall to strong-arm her and hold her facedown. He seemed so inexperienced in life and yet he peeled off her jeans like he'd done it a hundred times before. His pick-up lines were usually the corniest, but he sounded like the devil incarnate when he breathed into her ear, "Settle down, cutie. Let's make this good."

It wasn't until days later that Sasha told her what happened. She never said who assaulted her but Michonne was almost 100% sure it was Robbie Vogt, the trust fund frat weasel with blue eyes, frosted tips and perpetually dirty nails. He was always in Sasha's face, trying to impress her, but after that night Michonne noticed how he avoided them like the plague.

Michonne had begged her to go to the police and press charges. She felt responsible for what happened to her friend. She had a paper due the next day and even though Sasha offered to stay and keep her company, Michonne begged her to go and have fun because she needed the peace and quiet to concentrate. While Michonne was acing that test, her best friend was going through a private hell.

That experience changed Sasha. After that, she was no longer the fun loving risk-taker Michonne had known more than half her life. She became hyper-defensive and had serious bouts of depression, but Michonne was always there with her through it all.

When Michonne met Mike, a softer side of Sasha was resurrected. She was so happy to see Michonne happy. She and Michonne would revert to middle-school antics, rehashing every night on the phone- what Mike did and what Mike said and how Michonne reacted and what Sasha would have said if she'd been there. Unbeknownst to Mike, Sasha was as much a part of his relationship with Michonne as he was. Unbeknownst to Sasha, Michonne wasn't as happy as she seemed.

In some ways, Mike and Michonne's split was harder for her curly-headed friend than it was for Michonne. After Sasha's assault, she couldn't really survive romantic relationships. She lost the desire for the weddings they planned when they were younger. Sasha no longer saw herself having a family. Maybe she thought that she'd live the life she'd dreamed about vicariously through Michonne.

Sasha never became Michonne's maid of honor. But at least they had their Peanut. She was there when his little head crowned. And when he came out screaming he took her breath away. He was the reason her kitchen cabinets had sippy cups. He was the reason why she sometimes found old shriveled french fries in her car. He was the reason she walked the streets last month with flat-ironed hair and smeared eye makeup, so she could be the Winter Soldier to his Captain America for Halloween.

She was taking his death, and it's manner, hard and seeing Michonne endure this kind of hurt made her wrathful in a way that scared her brother. So Tyreese was making it a habit to pop up at Sasha's to check on them both. Most of the time he didn't know what to say. All of the time he felt the dense black hole growing inside him.

He was always their bodyguard of sorts. But as strong as he was, he knew none of them were safe in their skin. He walked around teetering on the verge of breaking down or blowing up. He probably would still be trying to come up with bail money right now, if Rick hadn't been there to snap him back to reality the night of the riot.

The conflict that night garnered national attention. Video of Sheriff Grimes folding under the weight of the trash can went viral. Andre's name became a hashtag along with the rallying call to 'say his name'. Reaction videos gave a platform to voices of compassion and tolerance, anger and revolution and unspeakable ignorance and bigotry. Pictures of his sweet smiling face, stolen from the Go-Fund-Me page Sasha set up, were being used to make fake accounts to scam generous people out of their money. And she seemed consumed by it all.

Michonne was basically run out of her home by all the attention from the press. Since Sasha lived in a gated apartment community and had a spare room, she insisted Michonne stay there to give her some distance from the relentless requests for statements and interviews. The next night, a bigger protest to protest the handling of the first protest was organized by city leaders. None of whom had actually talked to the mother in mourning, the woman everyone felt for but nobody knew. This whole ordeal had taken on a life of its own.

Michonne wasn't sleeping well and unknown numbers rang her phone non-stop since the riot. Sasha eventually made her turn it off, gave her an Ambien and sent her to lie down. Now that she had finally gotten Michonne to rest and ignore the phone, hers rang.

Sasha was in the middle of watching a video rant about the 'school-to-prison pipeline' when she answered the unfamiliar number cautiously. "Hello?" Her voice echoed through her open floor plan as she stood to face the cloudy day outside her picture window. She focused on one of her neighbors having a cigarette in the courtyard below.

"Hello, this is Andrea Mitchell. I'm returning Sasha Williams' call?" A white woman spoke confidently on the other end.

Sasha contained her excitement, settled down on her baby blue suede sectional in her sweats and head wrap and confirmed, "Yes, Ms. Mitchell. This is Sasha. Thank you so much for calling back so quickly."

"Of course, Sasha. You can call me Andrea. I understand you want to talk to me regarding Michonne August. Is that right?"

Of course, Andrea Mitchell had heard of Michonne August. Every prosecutor worth a pound on the scales of justice was itching for a call from the most pitiable mother in the country. Some lawyers were being bold enough to call her first. But Michonne was put off by the impersonal feel of a phone call from a stranger. "Even the bloodthirsty reporters have enough presence of mind to come stand on my lawn to see me face to face", Michonne had mentioned to Sasha after hanging up on one of the eager beaver, legal eagles trying to get her case.

Andrea was not familiar with Sasha Williams and Sasha Williams was smart enough to know that, without mentioning Michonne's name, Ms. Andrea Mitchell would not have returned her call.

Michonne's mind was not set to the politics of this nightmare. She wasn't thinking about revenge. Sasha was the one who'd talked her and Tyreese into going to the police station to 'talk to whoever was in charge of the investigation' the night of the riot.

But when they got there and a mysterious crowd was gathering, Sasha pulled out an equally mysterious megaphone from the back of Tyreese's truck like Arthur's Excalibur and the mood changed dramatically. Sasha wasn't clueless about the perfect storm she'd created that night. She had her own ideas about what should happen to the police who killed her godson.

Sasha paced back and forth over the black, white and blues of the large area rug in her living room. "Yes. I... I mean we... well, she thinks it's wrong that the men who killed her son are not being held accountable. Is there anything we can do from a legal standpoint even though their investigation cleared them of wrongdoing?"

"There are most likely other avenues to pursue," Andrea answered trying not to chomp at the bit too anxiously. She knew this case could be a career changer. They told her she could make a difference in law school, so she dove head first into civil rights.

She remembered, as a child, seeing the grainy images of Rodney King being beat mercilessly by police. By the time O.J. went to trial for killing his wife, she was old enough to imagine building a case for both sides. After 9/11 she was just a rookie, still she helped represent at least a dozen cases involving discrimination and hate crimes against Muslims.

But Andrea was feeling less and less optimistic about successfully handling any case involving police misconduct or brutality considering the track record of the courts lately... hell, considering the track record of the country if she was honest. But if this bereaved mother needed help, the activist in her couldn't refuse.

"Of course, I would need more from Ms. August. Is there a reason why she is not speaking to me herself?"

The reason Michonne was not speaking to Andrea herself was because this was every bit Sasha's plan, but instead of saying that, her best friend explained, "Right now she is exhausted mentally, emotionally... physically as you could imagine. She has a lot of moving parts to keep up with. I'm just trying to help. I want to make sure that we don't wait too long to try and get justice for my godson."

"I understand."

"I was wondering, since it's kinda hard for her to leave the house... would you be willing to come here, to my house and discuss what you think our next steps should be?" Sasha was sure that if Andrea came to see Michonne that would get everything off to a good start.

Andrea didn't want to agree without some assurances. "Will Ms. August be available to speak to me as well?"

"Yes. Of course. She'll be here."

"Uh let's see..." Andrea flipped through the handwritten planner at her desk, "I believe... I have some time this evening. I can't really give you a specific time... it depends on how long my afternoon meetings run. Would this evening be okay? Sometime after six?"

"Yes we'll be here. I will text you my address and let the guard at the gate know to expect you. Thanks so much."

"Thank you for reaching out to me. I will see you this evening."

Around the time it started getting dark outside; Sasha heard keys jingling on the other side of her door. With her spare key, Tyreese entered the apartment, dirty from his landscaping business. Even though business was slower in the winter months, he'd still managed to have a backbreaking day. He was carrying two big brown paper bags of Chinese food.

"How y'all doing?" He spoke in his version of a soft voice.

"Okay." Sasha answered in a melancholy mood, taking one of the bags from him and placing it on the dining room table. She opened it and peeked inside, "Smells good. You didn't have to get us dinner."

"Why? You been up in here cooking?" He asked sarcastically looking over her head at her immaculate white counters topping the black cabinets in her kitchen.

"No." She smiled snatching the other bag out his hand with a roll of her eyes.

"So I DID have to get dinner... You can just say thank you." He kissed her cheek.

"Thank You." She playfully rolled her neck along with her eyes this time.

He looked into the living room at the empty couch. "Where's 'Chonnie?"

"That Ambien knocked her out. She's been sleep all afternoon. I'll go get her."

Sasha's house shoes dragged down the hall to her bedroom door. She knocked and received no answer. "Chonnie?" She crept in and Michonne stirred under the heavy comforter. "Hey Chonnie, Big Boy brought us some Chinese food. You gonna come out and eat with us? I can bring you a plate in here if you don't want to get up yet."

Thankful for the love of her friends, she made an effort, "No. I'm coming. I'm gonna take a quick shower first."

Sasha shuffled back out to her brother. "She's coming."

"Good. How's she been today?" Tyreese inquired after his surrogate sister.

It had been over a week now and finalizing Andre's funeral was going painfully slow. "She talked to the funeral home earlier this morning. They settled on a day for the service." Sasha moved around her brother, at the sink washing his hands, and brought plates and glasses from the kitchen to the white lacquer surface of her dining room table. "She's been trying to write his obituary. She was up most of the night."

Understanding how difficult that must be for a mother, Tyreese wondered, "Why don't you do it for her."

"Ty, you know I offered."

"I know." Tyreese sat at the table and leaned back in the gray velveteen chair with a sigh. He took stock of his sister. She looked tired but instead of complaining about how tired she was, she was pretending to be fine. He worried when she got like that. "So, what did you do today?"

"I had to set my boss straight." Her temper began to flare at the thought of that conversation. "She had the nerve to call and ask me if I could fill in for Candace next Monday. I told her I have enough leave for two more weeks and it's possible that I won't be back for 2 weeks. She better not call my phone again."

"She won't." Tyreese snickered with certainty. "Okay. That's one more name for the shit list."

"Oh! I did get Andrea Mitchell to call me back," Sasha announced with a sense of accomplishment.

"Sash..." Tyreese sighed.

"Ty..." She sarcastically answered him back, echoing his tone.

"Did you talk to Michonne about that yet?"

"No. That's why I called the lawyer. She's gonna come and talk to her about it. Maybe the three of us can convince her it's the right thing to do."

"The three of us?" Tyreese pushed back with surprise.

"Yes. The THREE of us. She said she's coming over this evening. We'll see," Sasha advised while busying herself with the table's arrangements to avoid eye contact with her brother.

"Sash..." He complained again, somewhat stunned by her bullheaded nature in this particularly delicate situation.

"I said WE'LL SEE!" She ended the conversation, bucking her eyes to quiet him.

Michonne emerged from the room in a long, borrowed floral mint green robe.

"You want wine or water? I got one iced tea left, too." Sasha spoke with her head in the fridge.

"Red," Michonne asked for the wine as she caught Tyreese around the neck from behind and thanked him with a hug for dinner. "You get noodles or rice?" She asked him mildly, studying his face to see if he'd remembered her preference.

Tyreese feigned offense, "Don't even play." He slid a container of shrimp lo mein to her- her favorite.

"I hope I can get through this. I don't really have an appetite." As soon as Michonne said it, Sasha gave her a threatening side-eye, sending Michonne hurrying to dress her plate. She walked back her statement, "But I'm going to eat!"

"And hurry up," Sasha demanded. "We're going to have company."

"Who?" Michonne paused before any food came out of the carton. She furrowed her brow, concerned.

Tyreese apprehensively took his eyes from Sasha and gave them to his plate. "A lady named Andrea Mitchell," Sasha replied.

"I've heard of her at work. What's she coming here for?" Michonne put down her white cubed carton of dinner, waiting for an answer. She knew Andrea Mitchell's reputation as a hard-edge prosecutor from her job as a paralegal.

Sasha fed her vague information, "She might be able to help you."

Michonne was not satisfied. "Help me with...?"

Tyreese interrupted, "Sasha still thinks you should sue," he stated plainly, earning him a bit of irritation from his sister.

"Why do you want to do this?" Michonne appeared displeased.

"It's not about what I want to do. It's about doing what's right." Sasha breathed with annoyance. "I think we should talk to her."

"And then what..." Michonne started to speak when they all heard a knock at the door and simultaneously turned toward it. "Is that her?" She sucked her teeth, "I'm not even dressed.

Sasha waved off Michonne's concerns over her attire as she made her way to the door. "She's earlier than she said..." She looked through the peephole, "What the...?" She looked back at the others at the table. Noticing the subtle disquiet on his sister's face, Tyreese stood up near his chair, ready to join her at the door if necessary.

'Who is it?' He mouthed without volume.

Sasha didn't say, she just rolled her eyes and opened the door. "Yes," she addressed the visitor rigidly.

"Hi, I'm... uh... looking for Ms. August. Is she here?"

Michonne heard his voice and her face lit up for the first time in days, unseen by her friends as they were both still facing the door. She couldn't see him yet with the door blocking her view. To her surprise, her heart seemed to flutter when he mentioned her name. Her mouth fell open and she stood there paralyzed until she heard Sasha answer him,

"She's not receiving any visitors." She moved quickly to close the door.

"Sash!" Michonne stepped in with a disapproving tone. Rick's dejected face sprang to life unseen by anyone else as they were all looking to Michonne. She came around the table and approached the door. Sasha stepped back, widening the egress and giving Michonne the first glance at him since she'd seen him last in the midst of the commotion outside his precinct. Michonne took over the door, holding it open for him and inviting him to come inside.

Rick gave a very reserved, "Hey." He took a short step inside, "Ms. August." He said her name again for no other reason than to say it.

His heart was thumping violently in his ears, making it hard to fashion a rational sentence. He adjusted his side arm nervously, to stall for time to think of something to say. All he was thinking was You're gorgeous and thank God he had the presence of mind not to say that. "I hope you don't mind... I came by to check on you. See how you... if you needed anythang."

Michonne slipped a stray loc back behind her ear, "I'm..." She shrugged, finding no words to accurately describe how she was really doing.

"I didn't know if you got home alright..." Rick referenced the other night.

"Me? What about your head?" Michonne moved closer her eyes searching for any damage done." Rick swept his hand up his forehead revealing a closed cut right at his hairline. Michonne reacted with a sympathetic 'tsk'. Feeling bold enough to reach up and help him hold his hair back as her motherly instincts took over. She inspected his injury, dragging a worried breath over her tongue. "How many stitches?"

"Uh... six." He mussed his hair, mindlessly rubbing his palm back and forth over the curls that he kept hidden most of the time under his hat. Stepping a little further inside, he saw Tyreese at the table and reached to shake his hand. "Thanks for getting her home, man. I'm Rick."

"Tyreese." The big man offered and their palms met.

Sasha interrupted the pleasantries, "Rick?" She emphasized his name with disdain, "How did you know where to find Ms. August?"

"Well, " He looked to the floor and scoffed with a little mischief, resting his hand on the butt of his holstered gun, "I AM the police." He attempted to break the ice with a little humor.

Humorlessly, Sasha countered, "Isn't that abuse of power? Using county resources to stalk somebody?"

He tried another joke, "Well, it ain't really stalkin' 'nless I creep in the bushes." He dipped his head in Michonne's direction, eyeing her bashfully from under his brow.

"We just sat down to eat." Sasha informed the sheriff brusquely in an attempt to hurry his departure.

Immediately Rick began to withdraw with apologies until Michonne stopped him with the words, "Care to join us?"

He smiled, looked at the floor, then finally brought his eyes up to Michonne again and saw her smiling back. He hesitated to give an answer, not wanting to impose and not wanting to leave. He only needed a reason- beyond simply wanting to- to stay.

"You know, I came to talk to you that night you got your stitches, but things kinda went left." Michonne understated the trouble that night. "Maybe we could talk now."

Rick literally blushed and Michonne tilted her head directing him to the table as she closed the door. They both seemed to forget that Tyreese and Sasha were in the room, leaving the brother and sister to eye each other quizzically regarding the behavior of the sheriff and their good friend.

"Michonne," Sasha interrupted her friend as she settled Rick at the table, "I don't think we have enough for four..." she said looking at Rick, then focusing her eyes on Michonne, "Besides we have company coming, remember? I think we should be discussing THAT." She widened her eyes, making a point. "I don't think that conversation should involve any outside parties."

Michonne sighed and irritation began to develop across her face. She did not appreciate how rude Sasha was being to the Sheriff. Still eyeing her disagreeable friend defiantly, Michonne asked, "Do you like shrimp lo mein?"

No one at the table replied to the odd question until Michonne turned to Rick and made it clear that she was asking him. He started, "Oh. Yeah, I love it." He turned his mouth down indifferently, "Not really a picky eater."

"So you can share with me." Michonne handed Rick the carton of noodles, "We'll eat on the couch." She gestured to him to take their dinner across the open room. "Rick and I won't listen to your secret conversation and y'all can ignore us too." She countered Sasha's objections, picked up her plate and wine glass and followed the awkward Sheriff over to the couch around the slight corner in the room.

Michonne set her plate down. "Would you like a drink? There's only wine or water. Sorry," she apologized, still standing ready to retrieve whatever he requested.

"Water's fine." Rick smiled.

From his angle on the couch he could see Sasha giving him a terrific evil-eye. Tyreese regarded him in a curious but much mellower fashion. Michonne could see neither of her friends as her back faced them. All her attention was fixed on the sweet blue eyes that made her feel like smiling. Even when she walked past them to get Rick a glass of ice water, she didn't seem to notice them at all.

"Use a coaster on my coffee table, please." Sasha demanded loudly of Rick as Michonne passed him the glass.

"On the side table behind you." Michonne's sweet voice juxtaposed Sasha's harshness, telling him where to find one.

Rick noticed Michonne seemed content to focus on him, not paying any mind to the negative energy at the dining room table and he decided to follow her lead. When she sat down with an extra fork, plate and napkin, the air around her filled with the dewy scent of body wash and Rick breathed deep as inconspicuously as he could.

She landed, not on the couch cushion furthest from him (as he would have expected), but close enough for their knees to touch. Rick realized, as she smiled at him again, that he had really only come there to see her face and make sure she was settled. Now that she seemed to want him to stay, he felt somewhat pressured to be good company, a thing he'd rarely been accused of lately.

Michonne folded the napkin neatly and placed it on the chunky dark wood coffee table in front of them. She sat the plain white plate beside it and rested the fork with care on the napkin. She estimated that a man like him, of his size and build, probably ate quite a bit. Maybe not as much as Big Boy, but still... So she upended the food container making a mountain of noodles and shrimp.

"That's good… Whoa! That's good." He chuckled, reaching out to stop her generous serving before she dumped it all out. "There won't be any left for you." When he got there he was hungry but now his stomach seemed to be too full of butterflies to eat so much.

"I don't really have an appetite. You worked all day," she said admiring him in his uniform. "You need it more than me. Go ahead." She looked into his eyes, sitting the plate in his lap. "Enjoy yourself."

Michonne said it and she meant it. She wanted to see him content at the moment. Every since the night of the riot, she had felt so bad for what had happened to him. She kept replaying the situation over and over in her head.

She didn't know Rick Grimes beyond his title of Sheriff, but after he spoke in front of that crowd she did know he was brave and strong. What he said that night told her he was wise and honest. How he said those things proved to her that he was a man with passion and determination. Him showing up tonight made it clear to her, even if Sasha couldn't see it, that he cared. He was a good, kind man. Michonne could feel all those things being communicated to her like she possessed some sort of telepathy when it came to him. For some reason it put her at ease despite her heart being broken.

"You gotta eat too." He told her in a reprimanding tone. "Grief can be so overpowerin'... it can make you forget that YOU still exist. So remember to take care of yourself. I don't want you losin' any weight," he said as his eyes moved over her body involuntarily.

Too late, he thought about how that might sound and how he'd looked at her. He'd meant it out of concern for her well-being but his attraction to her thick physique was also part of that admonition. He hoped she wouldn't take it wrong. He sighed at his clumsy words and stuffed his mouth full of food to shut himself the hell up.

Michonne didn't seem to take offense and Rick swallowed, relieved. He decided to let her do the talking. Internally, he reprimanded himself,

 _Just eat, you dummy._


	4. Chapter 4: Painting Pictures

Painting Pictures and Drawing Lines

"Tell me, how are those deputies?" Michonne asked searching Rick's face in sincerity.

He wasn't sure what deputies she was referring to. He assumed she couldn't mean the ones involved in her son's shooting. Maybe she meant the deputies who were at the riot. He needed clarification. "The deputies?"

"Dixon and Walsh?" She looked at him seriously. "I'd like to speak with them both at some point. This must be hard for them and their families too, I'm guessing."

Rick was stunned. He still looked at her puzzled. _What kind of person inquires after the well-being of the men who killed her son?_ He didn't know what to make of it and he found it hard to come up with an answer.

"Uh... I'm not keepin' in regular contact with 'em since they're on leave." He side-stepped the question not wanting to think about them, especially Merle. He honestly hadn't spoken to either of them in a few days, their last meeting was still sour in his mind.

"I've thought about it a lot... it's all I've been thinking about... how we're so poisoned against each other in this country. I've gotten pretty much past the anger, I think, and I want to apologize to you. The first time we met... I wasn't angry with you... I..." She started to choke up, remembering what she'd said to him and how since then, in a short time, he'd earned her respect.

But Rick wouldn't hear an apology from her. "Hey, Do me a favor," he interrupted her, "don't apologize about that, EVER."

"It's just that Andre was my whole world." She smiled, though her eyes read unspeakable pain.

She told Rick how her mother begged her to get an abortion. How she promised it would be their secret and her father would never have to know. Hugo August was always a proud man and his wife, Gayle, was very strict. Her mother knew that news of their daughter's pregnancy out of wedlock would cause an irreparable rift in her family. Michonne knew it too and yet she chose to keep the little baby growing inside her like a magical seed.

Her voice lost all emotion when she related to Rick that ,even now that her son was gone, only her mother called briefly to offer her only child some robotic condolence. Still, having her sweet son for five years was worth everything. It meant she had to leave the comfort of her family home. It meant she had to put herself through college. It meant giving up a relationship with her parents in order to become one. But she never regretted her choice.

"It sucks to be so afraid of someone and love them so much. My dad… He didn't think I could be a mother. I'm almost glad he won't talk to me. Bad enough I kept Andre. I can only imagine what he must think of me now that I've lost him."

She gasped, starting to weep in the palms of her hands and Rick slid his hand over the silk covering her back to console her. Sasha and Tyreese had been trying to eavesdrop but she and Rick sat close enough to speak softly. When Michonne began to cry however, Sasha heard it and looked up quickly with concern.

"You okay, Chonnie?

Michonne didn't answer her, she just nodded with her hands covering her face. Rick looked past Michonne to Sasha and Tyreese, both of whom seemed to blame him for her sudden sadness.

"Maybe… maybe I should go," Rick suggested somberly. "I don't want to upset you."

Those words prompted Michonne to uncover her face. She saw him look to her friends nervously. "You're not upsetting me," she stressed. She accepted a napkin from Rick's hand and pulled herself together. "I don't want to talk about that anymore. Let me tell you more about Andre."

She looked around for her phone and saw it next to Tyreese. She got it and brought it over to Rick ignoring the eyes Sasha threw her to get her attention. Her phone was full of Andre's life- his dancing, his singing, his snoring, his most exciting moments. She was eager to share them with Rick.

Michonne was the perfect mix of her mother and father. She hadn't seen them since the day she moved all of her things out of their house, which much have took great effort on their part since they didn't live far. Between the breaks in her stories, when she reminded the raptly listening sheriff to eat, she told him how happy she had been when they handed Andre to her after he was born and she saw someone else with her face again.

"I used to hate my big lips and dark skin until I shared those things with my Peanut." She confessed with a hint of a chuckle as she showed Rick another picture.

Rick looked at her face and wondered how she could ever find a flaw in such perfection. He looked at her lips, having never seen another pair like them. They drew him in the entire time they talked, every time she licked them or pulled a noodle past them into her mouth. He wondered too, how she could hate her magical skin. So dark, but at the same time she glowed under the yellow lamp light like the cosmos. The smooth surface shimmered naturally.

He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, instead he thought better of it and mentioned his own kids. "My son has a lot of my features too. He carries them a lot better than I do though," He quipped.

"That's right. You said you have children." Michonne reminded herself and her face fell a little.

 _Of course he has a wife and kids_. She wasn't sure why, but she had consciously put that knowledge out of her mind to bask in his attention, but now it kind of smacked her in the face. She swallowed her disappointment with a sip of her wine.

"Well actually just a son. He's 13. Big," Rick revealed proudly.

Michonne was confused, "So... I'm sorry... kid or kids? Thought at the precinct you said kids?"

Rick responded with a sigh, "It's complicated." He winced to think of the situation.

To her amazement, baring her life for someone who knew nothing about her or her son, felt normal and easy. It wasn't difficult for her to talk about Andre with Rick sitting there. He was the first person she felt safe enough to unload everything on her heart with.

She wanted to tell him things so she could see the instant he absorbed another molecule of her existence with that look of calculation in his eyes. He was adding up everything she shared with him and somehow subtracting the ugly parts with his soft hums as he chewed. But she remembered, despite her openness, they were actually strangers.

She excused him, "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." But she sure was curious.

"No. I don't mind." He continued, to her relief and imparted another happy truth, "My ex-wife was... 'seein'' her current husband while we still were together. I was clueless. She got pregnant and had a little girl by him. I didn't find out she wasn't mine until she was two. So as far as I knew, I was her daddy for two years."

"Should've called Maury." Michonne ventured to joke with a shrug as Rick seemed at peace with the situation.

He didn't catch on at first, but then he chuckled reflectively. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I should've. The paternity test during our divorce says she isn't mine but sometimes I forget. It's..."

"Complicated." She finished for him as she took another mouthful of food and avoided eye contact, "So, ex-wife?" She prodded a little, to which he nodded with a ironic smile.

It had been an embarrassing thing for him to admit that his marriage was over even as recent as a month ago when he ran into an old family friend who didn't know his ex had since remarried. But now he was happy to tell Michonne that he was unencumbered and she tried to hide how happy she was to hear it.

"So she has your kids... or... well, your son?"

"Yeah. I get Carl two weeks out the month. I think he's just about used to livin' in two houses now. I made a conscious effort to stay in his school district so it wouldn't be too much change for him. You know, people love to say how resilient kids are. I don't know if that's true but they learn how to deal. I think Carl was happy for us to get on with our lives. His mom's happy. I'm doin' okay, too. Sometimes they even let Judith come with him for the weekend."

Michonne lifted her brow with surprise at that news. _Mike barely wanted his own child on the weekends._ Rick saw her reaction and admitted, "Yeah, it can get pretty awkward. But I still love that little girl and she loves her big brother so I just ignore the..."

"Complications."

They both smiled.

Rick wanted to ask about Andre's father, but he decided that wouldn't be a good idea. He just kept the conversation light… with his pathetic romantic failures.

With the revelation of his domestic arrangement, Michonne now had more proof of the remarkableness of Sheriff Grimes. There aren't too many men around that would put aside their pride for another man's daughter. She knew he couldn't be perfect or else he would still be taken. But it was getting harder and harder for her not to be a fan of his.

One of the things that had touched her in his speech outside the precinct was the fact that he'd spoken to Andre's teacher and best friend. She always wondered why. The organic flow of their conversation made it easy to ask.

"Rick?" She tilted her head and stared at him strangely, "What made you go and talk to Miss Ryan and Terry?"

"You did," he answered quickly. "You told me how good Andre was and I wanted to know more." He took a sip of water, "And good was an understatement." He said as he watched her eyes pool. Miss Ryan had also sung Michonne's praises and asked Rick to pass along her sympathies. "Miss Ryan told me how involved you were at the school despite your busy schedule. She called you one of a kind." He looked into her eyes and had to agree. "I saw Terry the other day. He told me he wants to make Andre proud of him. I've never heard a little kid talk like he does. He's a rascal for sure, but I think he'll be okay."

"Yeah. I guess kids sound very adult when society shows them things even grown-ups can't handle." Michonne ruminated to the nod of Rick's head. She could see he was really listening.

 _I have to tell her._

He had to share the part of his past that he regretted most. She didn't seem to know about it and it would kill him if she found out about it from someone other than him. He felt his body stiffen nervously and perspiration dampened the armpits of his shirt as his confession left his lips,

"I had to use my service weapon once. I shot a kid." Michonne looked disturbed by that. "I didn't kill him." He assured her with downcast eyes still feeling guilt over the boys eventual outcome. "He had just turned 17 the week before... just a kid. He was a new dad. Just three years older than my son is now and he was a dad!" Rick sounded plagued. "What kind of job could he get to take care of a baby at 16? Who was tellin' him anythang... useful? Who was guidin' him, y'know? No father around... People look at kids like that and see 'em as criminals... from kid to criminal... all it takes is one bad choice. The same kind of bad choices my son makes all the time... 'cept my son is still livin' the life of a kid, not pretendin' to be a man out in the streets."

Michonne listened now. And they went into a long discussion of media bias, institutional racism, the consequence of entire communities of drug addicts and the generation coming up after them. Michonne appreciated that, though some of his views were a little off the mark in her opinion, his time in the street as a cop and the injustice he'd witnessed was not lost on him.

It was well past 8 pm when another knock came from the door. Sasha got up eagerly and checked the peephole. "Who is it?" She asked not recognizing the woman outside but still assuming it was the attorney she'd invited.

"Andrea Mitchell," the answer came back. Sasha opened up and let her in, greeting her warmly.

Michonne looked annoyed by the visitor coming through the door. Rick had a more puzzled and worried look on his face. Tyreese seemed apprehensive.

"Good evening." Andrea greeted the room as everyone stared at her with different expressions. "I'm so sorry it's so late. My meetings ran long."

"I'm Sasha and this is Michonne August," The lady of the house began introductions followed by a series of hand shakes. "My brother, Tyreese." Sasha ignored Rick but to everyone's surprise, he and Andrea seemed to be familiar.

"Hello, Rick." Andrea said in a peculiar tone. He returned her greeting in a similarly odd fashion. She turned to Michonne and said, "I don't know if it's beneficial to your case for him to be here."

"My case?" Michonne looked to Sasha.

Sasha spoke up, "I agree. If you decide you want to work with Andrea, he might be a snag you'd just as soon not have in the middle of all this." She and Andrea spoke about Rick as though he wasn't even there.

The sheriff nodded slowly, feeling blind-sided and disrespected, he stood up and pulled his brown, labeled uniform coat on.

"You don't have to leave, Rick." Michonne made it known.

"No. They're right this doesn't concern me. Could be viewed as a conflict of interest. I wasn't invited anyway and it seems Ms. Mitchell was," Rick said politely. "Thanks for dinner. Can I help you clean up before I go?"

"No, no..." Michonne frowned as she waved off the cluttered coffee table.

"You sure?" Rick asked and Michonne promised him it was fine. "Well," he shook Tyreese's hand, "it was nice meetin' you." He held a hand up in farewell to Sasha. "Thanks for lettin' me visit a while." Michonne followed him outside into the apartment hallway and much to Sasha's and Andrea's dismay, closed the door to speak to him privately.

"Sorry, you feel like you have to go. For the record, Sasha called her not me," Michonne explained.

"I thought I told you, your apologies are no good here." Rick forced himself to give her a reassuring smile. "If she can help you, I'm glad," he said genuinely. "She's one of the best lawyers from what I've seen, so that's good." He studied his feet.

"I... I just don't want you to think that... I'm... your enemy or that you're unwelcome." Michonne spoke softly.

"And I don't think that." Rick returned to her apologetic brown eyes, "Look you have my card. You can still contact me anytime you want. But..." he looked at Sasha's apartment door, "it might be best if I wait til you're back at your own house before I visit you again. Okay?" His sapphire eyes smiled sweetly.

"Yeah. Okay." She conceded, her cheek bones rising. They stood there for a brief moment each of them wanting to embrace the other. But no one moved forward. Instead, Rick turn to go down the steps. "Take care, okay?" He said goodbye with a low wave of his hand. "And remember to eat," he commanded over his shoulder with a smile.

"I will."

She watched him walk out into the cold and then pushed back into the apartment.

Michonne went straight to help Sasha who was already cleaning off the area where they were eating to make room for Andrea. As she gathered the dishes, an irking feeling swelled up in Michonne's chest.

She spoke with a severe tone to all the parties sitting around the coffee table in the room, "I'm going along with this meeting out of respect for my friend's recommendation," she said gathering plates into her arms, "and because if there was some wrongdoing that was covered up, I want to know about it. But I am not a vindictive person." She let them all know. "I work in the courts everyday and I don't like what I see there when people get caught up in lawsuits that stem from bitterness." She went to the nearby kitchen with her load.

"Neither do I." Andrea agreed from her seat in the living room. "This is strictly about getting justice for your son.

"I'm not really convinced that that can be obtained in a US court of law, but I'm listening." Michonne relinquished her objection and sat warily back on the couch where she'd been enjoying Rick's company.

"Well the most feasible path forward is a wrongful death lawsuit. That would involve proving that the deputies used excessive force with your son in their handling of the situation. That could entail a civil case where you would be award monetary restitution and, depending on the evidence, a criminal case as well, where one or both of the deputies could face jail time for manslaughter or homicide."

"More than anything," Sasha broke in with a tone of outrage that startled the others in the room, "we want the people who did this to know that they can't get away with this shit and come out unscathed." Tyreese rubbed her shoulder to calm her fire.

After a moment, Andrea continued, "It's very hard to try these kinds of cases against law enforcement. The police have something called qualified immunity, which gives them a lot of freedom in action out in the field. In order to get around qualified immunity, we have to prove that the police were not just negligent..." Andrea paused to reflect the gravity of the situation, "...we have to prove that they willfully acted in an unreasonable, unsafe manner. Which means we have to go beyond the incident itself. We have to establish that they acted in a dangerous manner habitually and it helps to have evidence of any discrimination or racism on the part of the deputies."

"Everybody knows the police do this to black people." Tyreese stated matter-of-factly as though that truth should be conclusive enough.

"And that's the problem-" Andrea made clear, "we know it and accept it as part of life. So when the police do something wrong people don't speak up because they know no one will listen. Cops who engage in misconduct are never reported. So, now, when we need these reports to backup a serious claim, like this one, we can't establish a pattern of misconduct for the jury. And 99% of the time, the other officers or deputies who may have witnessed such behavior will never testify against another badge."

Sasha became visibly agitated. She sighed understanding the near impossibility of it all.

"That's why I highly advise not becoming too close to the Sheriff, Ms. August. He is a very nice guy, but rest assured, if things come down to your case or the survival of his office or deputies, he's not going to work in your favor. Not to mention, unfortunately, most cases are tried in the court of public opinion first. If people believe there is any connection or possible collusion between you two, it could seriously jeopardize our case."

Michonne was not pleased at hearing that. "Well, first how do we know there is a case? Maybe those officers just made an honest mistake and with this whole qualified immunity, we'd never be able to prove otherwise."

"I'm not going to lie, unless we find the proverbial smoking gun in a case like this, it's likely to cost tens of thousands of dollars to hire good private investigators just to find any evidence that would prove our case. That's not including the legal fees and time involved or the stress and scrutiny you'd be under. It really is a gamble. But I agree with Sasha, if you have the circumstances to fight this kind of injustice, you're duty-bound to your community to do it for those that can't."

Michonne did not like being told by someone else what her duty was in this situation. "The only thing I was duty-bound to do was to raise my son. He's gone. Now I have a duty to move on with my life." She said with conviction. "My mother tried to stand her ground and use the legal system. She got a restraining order against my father when I was little. She tried to leave. I promise that paper from the judge did not make a difference." Her voice began to break, "It just made him more angry."

Michonne remembered what her father did to her mother when he finally found them. It was only one hit, but the sound of his palm cracking across Gayle Anthony's face is one she'd never forget. She pulled herself together after a deep breath. "And don't forget, you're talking about destroying the lives of two men who most likely made an honest mistake. Kicking them when they're down..." She shook her head. "Karma for that can't be kind."

"Destroying THEIR lives?" Sasha protested, nearly bowled over. "Michonne, Andre is dead!"

"And none of THIS will change THAT!" Michonne lost her temper, finally. She swept her hands back over her locs attempting to calm down. She switched to a softer volume. "Thanks for coming by Ms. Mitchell. I know you're busy. I am going to focus on burying my son right now. Before I decide to move forward with this case, I have to speak with Dixon and Walsh."

"Michonne, that's not..." Andrea began.

Sasha was puzzled. "Talk to them? For what?!"

But Michonne shut it all down. Without another word, she went back to the guest room and laid down. She could feel the glass of wine saturating her nerve endings. She was such a lightweight. She looked over at her phone on the nightstand and worried at her lip.

She worried that his feelings were hurt. She worried that she wasn't mourning her son as she should have been. Shouldn't she have been too deep in sorrow to even notice Rick Grimes?

She worried that she was making a fool of herself in front of her friends, that she was being disloyal to Sasha. She worried that her feelings for him were not even feelings at all- just a coping mechanism to distract her from her pain. She worried that she was being all kinds of messy and Michonne hated a messy woman. She ignored the urge to call him for company. Instead she stayed up all night and fought her demons.


	5. Chapter 5: Only Ashes, Nothing More

**A/N: This is a single chapter update. I know it's sad, but it does answer some of the questions I've gotten about Mike and his version of events.**

 **To make up for this chapter, I also gave you two full chapters of fluff in my other story _Call_. If you're caught up with that one, it will make you feel better after you read this.**

 **~comewithnattah**

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Only Ashes, Nothing More

Michonne was proud of him. He'd had a very troubled past, like many black men. But he'd decided to rise above his circumstances. Growing up, he had anger issues, mainly due to his mother's drug addiction. He got in a dust-up at school and spent some time in juvie.

But one of the officers there took him under his wing, helped him work through his feelings and gave him some much needed attention. He was able to go back to school, straighten up and fly right, get his diploma. He busted his ass to qualify for a college scholarship. He made it there and made it out successfully.

But those same things she admired about Mike put a serious strain on their relationship. Out of necessity he had to learn how to put his surroundings out of his mind. It served him well as a child living in a crack house but when they moved in together- she didn't appreciate being ignored.

They both agreed to try for Andre but when Michonne complained about Mike's friends or late nights being inappropriate for a man who would soon be a father, he told her a baby was not going to change who he was. He'd worked hard to build the life he wanted. He wouldn't stop living that life just because he'd created another.

The selfishness of those statements hurt Michonne deeply. But she decided Andre was the most important thing in her life. She reasoned that staying was not the same as leaving and going back like her mother had. This was all her choice. She could tolerate Mike so Andre could know his father. That decision didn't last long.

When Andre was about nine months old, an argument between his parents ended with Mike pushing Michonne to the ground. It happened in a split second flare of anger, but that was the coup de gras for their relationship. She moved in with Sasha that night and had her own place three months later. He apologized immediately and profusely over the next couple weeks but, struggle be damned, Michonne was never ever going to be with a man that put his hands on her. Never.

They managed a pretty civil co-parenting relationship. She agreed to keep him out of child support court, he helped her when she bought and moved into the little three bedroom bungalow. But Michonne still felt like the life Mike gravitated towards was not the environment or the future she wanted for Andre.

Mike's job as a cable tech paid him well. And he believed that as long as he took care of his son financially, the example he set was not as important. God knows he never had a example to follow and in his own estimation, he had turned out fine.

Michonne wasn't very vocal with her concerns once they ended their relationship. But she had to speak up regarding the different women he dealt with- their low character and the beefs he accumulated with this one's baby father or that one's ex. It worried her that one of those altercations might get out of hand when he had Andre with him. So she asked that he please keep his time with Andre separate from all the foolishness. Mike agreed and, to Michonne's relief, he seemed to be keeping to that promise.

That's why she couldn't believe he found himself in this situation involving, not only the police, but also their son. Mike had his faults but it was hard for her to believe that he would have put Andre in that kind of danger. Still, this kind of scenario, though, not as severe, had always lurked as a possibility in the back of her mind.

Unlike all the people quick to blame the police, Michonne knew that Mike was somehow culpable. He was the only person she was sure she could blame for this. She was ignoring his calls from the jail. But this day, desperately wanting to know exactly what happened, she gave in and answered,

"Yes?" She gave no hope of affection in her acknowledgement of him on the other end of the call.

"Michonne..." He spoke her name quickly and then lost the nerve to speak just as quickly. He just went silent.

"Mike, what happened?" That was all she wanted to know. "What did you do?"

He started to weep at the question. HE had done it. It was all his fault. He killed his son. The guilt was crushing him. But the same guilt was tearing Michonne apart too. Andre shouldn't have been with Mike in the first place. To her everlasting heartache, an argument between her and Mike had sealed her son's fate and she would never get over that truth.

That day she had dropped her little Peanut off at school, told him she loved him and got her hug and kiss. Work was a bitch. That morning she had left out a critical document from a case file for the nastiest attorney at her firm. From there the day deteriorated. She was so stressed and ready to leave at 5 but Aaron had asked her to say and she couldn't say no to Aaron after all the help he'd given her.

It was Aaron Bernard who had given her a chance to intern at his firm. A college kid with a regular job and a baby. She applied to a number of practices for a spot on their intern rosters and though she interviewed well, they always went with other candidates.

She couldn't say it was a racial issue. Other black students got in, lighter-skinned girls with indian bundles and no baggage.

But Aaron loved her. Her mild-temper, her humility, her honesty- all made her very dear to him. He went out of his way to help her. He was never terse or impatient with her, unlike some of the other attorneys who were willfully intimidating to the young and inexperienced group of interns.

Now that she was no longer a volunteer, Michonne didn't actually work in Aaron's office or even on the same floor of the building, but he knew who to call when his assistant called out and left him with an overflowing desk of files, forms and photographs to organize.

Staying to help Aaron meant she couldn't pick Andre up from aftercare. She called Sasha first but as a child welfare agent, she had received a last minute case and was stuck at work, too. So, as a last resort, Michonne called Mike.

He told her that he had some 'moves to make' that evening, so he couldn't have Andre with him. "Make your moves tomorrow, Mike," Michonne had responded condescendingly. "Sasha is still at work and Tyrese is across town. He offered to go but he won't get there in time. Would you please just go get your son. You have him this weekend anyway."

Mike was irritated that she was trying to spin this and make it about his responsibility toward his son while ignoring the fact that he had other obligations too. "I know I have him this weekend, that's why I need to do this stuff now! You're always complaining about what I'm doing but when..."

Michonne cut him off, "Look. Aaron really needs my help. But he will understand if I have to leave because you won't help me. Just tell me yes or no." She cut him deep, knowing he wouldn't want Aaron involved in this disagreement, since the older man had given him a reprimand or two in the past. Mr. Bernard was a genius at razor sharp subliminal slights. "Yes or no, Mike."

He agreed and Michonne hung up. After he had Andre in the car with him she got a call on her cell. Unable to find the buzzing device in the stacks of papers quickly, the call went to voicemail. When she finally found it, the call log showed Mike had called last. She took a break, called back and Andre answered the phone.

"Hey, Peanut," she said excitedly.

"Hey, Mommy. How was your day," Andre's little voice asked sweetly.

"Long and still not over yet," she sighed disappointed. "How was school?"

"Long and still not over yet," he echoed his mother. "I got TWO homework packets to do," Andre emphasized with a squeak.

"Well you better start tonight, then. I'll check them when you get home Sunday."

He groaned, "Okay."

"Ok, Cap." She called him Cap whenever he needed a boost of confidence. His favorite superhero, Captain America, could get the job done and so could he.

"Ok, mommy. I love you."

"I love you too, Peanut. Be good."

"Ok. Bye, mommy."

"Bye bye."

That was it. That was the last time she talked to her son, the last 'I love you' Michonne thought she'd ever accept without question. Over the days since she'd lost Andre, she seemed to be relieving every trauma in her life. Now she was on the phone asking one of her past traumas to take her step by step through another.

Mike was still in tears and Michonne was losing patience. "Look Mike," she started, trying not to sound as cold as she felt, "I didn't accept this call to listen to you cry. I want to know what happened. That's it. If you can't tell me I'm hanging up."

"I just fucked up." He admitted, "I just fucked up."

Michonne remained silent.

He began, "I was on my way to Cookie's house."

"With Andre?" Michonne immediately blazed hearing that he was taking their child to his mother's house. Michonne had forbid Mike to take Andre there. Cookie was still heavily into drugs and the element around her home was toxic.

Michonne knew Mike enabled his mom. She had made her case time and again to Mike that he was indirectly killing her by supporting her addiction. But he told her she didn't know anything about it.

Michonne had never taken a drug in her life and she wouldn't even be around Sasha when her best friend smoked a little weed. Michonne figured you don't have to know about drugs to know about the outcome of addiction. She knew that if Mike was going to see Cookie, he was probably bringing her a hit.

"Did you have drugs in that car, Mike?"

Mike was silent.

"What happened? Just tell me."

Mike stopped short of giving any confessions, "You know they record these convers-"

Michonne interrupted, "My son is dead. You're really worried about that?"

"I know. Okay," Mike conceded, sniffling. "I stopped to get some gas, across from where I got pulled over. I did a u-turn at the light. I was a little buzzed, but… but I was driving fine. I swear on my life! I don't know what they stopped me for... but that's when the lights flashed... Andre wasn't in his car seat..."

"What? Why not?"

"I had taken it out of the car and when you called I didn't have time to go back and get it..."

"You didn't have time?" She repeatedly doubtfully.

Mike sighed and continued. "I pulled over but then I started to think about what would happen if they searched my car. I was going to jail either way, I knew that... but I didn't want them to call CPS for Andre. I know how you feel about that. I really was just thinking about YOU and HIM," He promised.

It was true, Michonne had heard horror stories from Sasha about the upheaval of lives that occurs when children enter the system for neglect or endangerment. Sometimes it takes years to get cases resolved.

Child Protective Services investigations turn small shortcomings into problems that require weeks of therapy, weeks of parenting classes and weeks of interviews. God forbid you get an incompetent case manager. Everything could take twice as long to return to normal.

He was right. Michonne would have hit the roof if Andre ended up with CPS. But she would have chosen years of agency meddling if it meant she could see Andre's face just one more time. Like always, Michonne felt that Mike was claiming the martyr's role. But this time, she wouldn't spare his feelings with careful words and a quiet tone.

"You know how I feel about him being around your crackhead momma, about him not being in his booster seat, about drugs... you know how I feel about a lot of things! None of that stopped you, though, did it!?"

Sasha heard Michonne's voice in distress and came, with a concerned look, to stand in front of her and monitor this conversation. Michonne barely acknowledged her presence.

"I'm sorry, Michonne. But they're trying to say I tried to run over that cop but I didn't! I was just trying to get Andre out of there. I saw the light turn green up ahead, there weren't any cars coming in the next lane and both the cops were out of the car. I never thought they'd shoot. So I just gunned it."

"Oh my god! Are you insane?! Are you insane, Michael?"

Michonne felt like she'd been punched in the gut. She was disgusted. She was incensed. She knew it was all his doing but she never thought he had been so reckless. Sasha put her arm around her friend. Now that she knew who Michonne was talking to she understood her fury.

"I turned around to make sure Andre was okay. And I saw him... he... he was..." Mike couldn't say what he saw in the backseat of that car.

Michonne started to feel sick at thought of it.

"I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I was just staring..." Mike started to breakdown again. "When I turned back around to see where I was going I was running up on the curb and I hit the tree. I'm sorry, Chonnie. I'm so sor-"

Michonne ended the call. She fell to her knees and she clutched at her heart.

"Chonnie!" Sasha called, trying to lift her. "What did he say?"

Michonne couldn't speak. Her heart was racing. She felt like she might pass out from the anger and the heartbreak of it all. She was hyperventilating. She felt herself being enveloped in black and her head felt like it would pop. Sasha was beyond worried. She picked up Michonne's phone and called an ambulance.

"Chonnie! Chonnie!" Sasha kept screaming through her tears and shaking her friend.

Michonne didn't respond.


	6. Chapter 6: Attachments

A/N: I just want to say thank you to everyone invested in this story. It certainly isn't an easy read, but my goal is to keep it compelling. Your reviews have convinced me that every story may not be a crowd pleaser but every story can resonate and it has really emboldened me to share what's important to me. I do believe they call that growth. Positive reviews are like sun and criticism can be like rain. Both make me a little more solid than I was before.

-comewithnattah

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Attachments

Michonne woke up, curled up in a bed, facing the blue sky outside a large window. A plane left a line of white as it zipped across the sky. She blinked slowly and slid her arm up through the layers of bedding to rub her eyes. It felt like she was floating or buried. She couldn't decide. She was so light and so heavy at the same time.

Immediately she perked her ears for the sound of Andre playing nearby. When she didn't hear anything, she tried to lift her head but a woozy feeling sent her down into her pillow again. As she stirred she heard the movement of someone else in the room.

 _Andre!_

The jumbled memories of something bad happening to her baby must have been a bad dream.

"Andre?" She called out weakly.

That's when she saw him and knew it hadn't been a dream.

…

Rick was in the middle of another stressful morning. After the fourth passive-aggressive email from a colleague, he logged out of his county account and disabled alerts. Mayor Monroe had just handed him his ass over the phone with the same complaint that everyone outside his department had- he wasn't being outspoken enough in support of his deputies.

The internal investigation found them not to be at fault but the media wouldn't let the story go because America craves negativity like mother's milk. She wanted him to do more interviews, give more statements. To many he was a hero. Something about him made people love him. He could do more than he was doing and nobody, not even the people who'd worked with him the longest, knew why.

He was signing some routine paperwork, when Daryl knocked on the frame of his open office door. The skinny young man wanted to talk but Rick was not in the mood to console him about whatever derogatory thing someone who knew his last name may have said to him. He would be there for that later but in that very moment he was feeling overwhelmed in a way that he hadn't in years.

Rick was a leader and, even though his mind was divided, he couldn't turn the soft spoken rookie away. The older man continued busying himself with paperwork while trying to give Daryl a portion of his attention, too. His newest recruit was having trouble expressing himself, it seemed. To Rick, the noise from overlapping conversations in the hallway, the sound of the copier being run non-stop by his secretary, the electronic buzz of the telephones and Daryl's mumbles blending in to the constant chatter from the CB, was little more than white noise.

Until the call for an ambulance to a familiar sounding address broke him out of his autograph. He stopped to look up and concentrate, Where do I know that address from? The description of the complainant made him jump out of his seat on a reflex.

 **Call placed by a Sasha Williams for a 28 yr. old, Black female, unresponsive, trouble breathing. No known drug use.**

He dropped everything he was doing and left. Daryl could see the concern on his face and offered to come along. He had no clue why or where he was going but he wanted to be there for the man who had been there for him so many times. He was more than just the guy he answered to at work. Rick was like family to him.

Unnerved, Sheriff Grimes barely noticed Daryl's presence as he broke for his cruiser. A man of few words, the occupant of the passenger seat was easily forgotten. He wasn't sure there was anything he could or should say. Any hope of finishing the conversation he'd been trying to get through before was gone. He couldn't read Rick's mind but his superior's face told him that any discussion with him was being postponed.

Rick flipped on the siren and tore away from the station, listening to the radio updates along the way, they met the ambulance at the hospital. Moving through the fast pace environment of the emergency room, Daryl stopped on a dime more than once to avoid a collision and keep up with the near panicked sheriff. Rick was already at the information desk, his palms flat across clipboards and pamphlets as he leaned over the counter inquiring after…

"Michonne August," Sheriff Grimes requested with an uncommon gruffness as he rubbed nervously at his forehead.

When Daryl heard the name he instantly felt the distance from him to his boss widen and the crushing feeling of guilt. He wished he could disappear. The mere possibility of coming face to face with Michonne August nearly made his knees buckle from anxiety. He hung back and watched Rick rush to a curtained off room, hot on the heels of the attending nurse.

The thin pink partition billowed open and Rick's eyes zeroed in on the quiet outline of the body on the rolling hospital bed. He thanked the middle-aged triage worker who had brought him back, stepping past her as she held open the curtain for him.

Sasha saw him and instantly felt sick. She rolled her eyes with disgust. She was worried out of her mind and did not feel like combating his perceived treachery. Rick saw the attitude but it did not deter him a bit.

Without a greeting, he asked, "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Sasha told him brashly.

"What happened?" He pressed, "Is she hurt?"

Sasha reminded him of the words he'd uttered the last time she saw him. "I thought you said that you coming around was a fuckin' conflict of interest."

Rick rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder with a quiet, groaning sigh, "Is Andrea comin' to talk lawsuits?

"No."

"Okay, then. No conflict. What happened?" Rick asked in a prickly tone as his worried eyes inspected the parts of Michonne that weren't covered in stark hospital white- only the side of her face and one hand.

Sasha reluctantly told him, "They said it was probably a panic attack. She's sedated."

Rick looked into her red-rimmed eyes and puffy face and realized Sasha had been crying. Her harsh demeanor made it hard to consider what she may have been going through in all of this. He softened to her, "Are _you_ okay?" He reached his hand out to her arm and she snatched away.

"Look. No matter how much you come around and pretend to fucking care, you're not fooling anybody. We're gonna move forward with the lawsuit and nothing you say or do is going to change that shit! And you should have your badge taken away for trying to manipulate her when she's vulnerable like this and not even fucking thinking straight."

Now Rick understood why she was being so hostile. She thought his concern was all an act that would ultimately hurt her friend. Rick made an attempt to help her see that saving his department was the last thing on his mind. "Y'all can go 'head with the lawsuit. I want you to. I want Ms. August to be okay. That's all I care about."

"Why? That doesn't make any sense." Sasha balled up her face.

Rick was caught off guard by that question. He knew an answer lurked at the forefront of his mind, but he wouldn't say it out loud. Instead he promised sincerely, "Look, I swear, I'm not tryin' to hurt your friend."

Sasha folded her arms across her chest and with a raised brow she gave him a look of sharpened daggers. She was done with him.

"I'm gonna go. But I'll be back to check on her later," Rick promised her.

She didn't alter her mood or appearance. She followed him with mistrustful eyes, scowling at the bare-faced deputy waiting for him a few feet away, until they both exited the automatic sliding doors of the ER. Daryl was no stranger to dirty looks, but he literally thought he might drop dead from the evil eye Sasha gave him.

The black Charger baring the sheriff department's logo was still where they left it, behind the ambulance that brought Michonne there. Rick was visibly agitated. His angry posture morphed into one of sad resolve. They stood there on the curb, side by side, while they both quietly worked out some private things in their heads.

Neither one of them had grabbed a coat in their dash to the hospital. Daryl huddled his shoulders with his hands in his pockets, a little from the cold, a little from the strangling sensation he was experiencing with the unpleasant situation he found himself in. "I can drive us back," Daryl finally volunteered, stretching his hand out to Rick for the keys.

Rick turned, walked a few steps toward the hospital entrance again and stopped. Something seemed so tortured about his aimless pacing and Daryl's entire body deflated when he recognized the emotion saturating the sheriff's being: painful attachment.

"Hey, Rick." Deputy Dixon called him back, hating to watch him languish like this. If somehow he'd developed feelings for Michonne August, standing there in the cold wouldn't help. Neither would going back in to fight with her distraught friend.

Daryl thought of something Rick could actually do at the moment and presented it, hoping to break his daze. "I can drive us back. Said you were comin' back here, right? I'll drive you back to get stuff settled at the office. Nobody from work'll be houndin' ya while you're here," he said with understanding eyes and a tone that underlined the practicality of his suggestion.

On a bit of a delay, Rick took two blind steps back before he uttered a stiff, "Alright". Tossing the keys to Daryl, he snatched open the door and dropped into the shotgun seat.

…

Rick was true to his word. Hours later, after his shift, he did come back, alone. When he knocked on the door of the room they'd moved Michonne to, Sasha answered and he peeked in. She saw him standing there, still in his uniform, and turned back to Michonne without a word.

"How's she doin'?" He asked Sasha while looking only at Michonne.

"She's been sleep all day." Sasha said in a groggy voice, too tired to be rude at the moment. She threw her head back and massaged her neck to relieve her stiff muscles.

"I saw Tyreese leavin' when I got here." Rick very hesitantly added, "He's worried about you."

Sasha was beside herself at that comment. She slowly turned to him crossing her legs, "Motherfucker..." She clenched her teeth and dragged out the word for emphasis, trying to stop herself from unleashing a barrage of profanity. "Don't worry about me and my fucking brother! I swear to God..."

"You look exhausted." Rick powered through her objections.

"Look, Grimes, Sheriff, _Rick_ ," She said his first name with that disdainful tone that made him want to duct tape her mouth. "Whoever the fuck you are. You don't' know shit about me. You don't know shit about my brother." She pointed between her and Michonne. "You don't know shit about us!"

"Yeah, well, I do know that you can't help your friend if you don't take care of you first. I found that out for myself the hard way." Sasha listened. He was saying what she already knew. "I don't know you guys, but I can tell your brother loves you. He won't tell you what you need to hear because he doesn't want to upset you. I on the other hand do not have a problem tellin' you that livin' off fumes and hate and stupid... fuckin'... meanness," he tightened his jaw, "is not gonna help your friend... at all."

Sasha stayed quiet and stunned.

"You should go home for a while or at least go down to the cafeteria and eat. But whatever you decide to do, I'm off for the rest of the day and I'm gonna be here for a couple hours. So you can sit in here and try to kill me with your stare or you can take a break from being a damn jerk and get some rest so you can help your friend when she wakes up."

Sasha got to her feet and snatched up her bag and coat. She thrust her hand out to Rick, "Give me your damn phone."

He reached in his coat pocket and handed it over. Sasha put her number in his contacts and called herself from his phone. She held it up so he could see Sasha Williams on the screen and she saved his number in her phone as Sheriff Grimes.

"Text me if she wakes up." She started to walk out the door, but turned to say, "Please."

Rick nodded, removed his coat and sat in the chair she vacated, placing his hat in his lap and smiling at his little victory. He sat there quietly taking her in. Her warm tawny skin wrapped in the cool white covers was a sight. Rick took the opportunity to stare as he had wanted to over shrimp lo mein at Sasha's apartment.

He started at the top of her head. He studied the cords of hair snaking around her face, ebony shades from the roots to the sandy blond glow at the tips. He remained contemplative, trying to figure out how she got it that way. He couldn't explain it so he moved on to her thick eyebrows. So clean, not a stray hair among the neatly groomed arches. They were all like little soldiers standing in formation, precisely curving in the same direction.

Her dark, full lashes curved so delicately, so feminine- an overdose of beauty on one face. Her shapely cheeks were almost as seductive as the curves he knew were hiding beneath the covers. After he made the comment about not wanting her to lose weight, he had tried not to notice, too obviously, the way her hips spread from the cinch of her robe belt or how her breasts convened liberally above her folded arms or how her thighs broadened as he sat with her on the couch that night. He thought of all that, but at this moment the shape of her face, the burnish of her skin... those lips... he was awestruck.

He wanted to reach out and touch some part of her. He considered that to be super stalker-ish. But he reasoned, she did touch the scar on his head without permission, so she'd already set their code of conduct...

 _But she's unconscious, Rick_ , he thought to himself. In the end, he picked up one of the locs laying across her face and moved it over her shoulder

To help her sleep undisturbed, he told himself.

He stood up then and paced the floor second guessing his decision to be alone with her. He wasn't a pervert or anything. He was just in a room with the most intriguing creature he'd ever seen and his curiosity about her, about her very existence, was getting the best of him. Then he noticed her moving.

She lifted her head and called for her dead son. His heart plummeted, realizing how he had come to know her at all. In that moment, he wondered if she would ever know him apart from the loss that had put her in the hospital bed that day.

"Ms. August?" Rick felt the need to continue calling her by her last name, keeping it formal after the thoughts he'd entertained moments ago.

Michonne looked around, still lying down. She rolled over flat on her back. "I'm in the hospital? Her brow drew up in a knot.

"Am I hurt? I feel funny," she said with a sleepy voice as she rolled her shoulder up to a half seated position. "Did you bring me here?" Michonne was struggling to bring up her last memory. She spotted a plastic pitcher of ice water on the rolling table behind her, next to an up-ended Styrofoam cup and tried to reach for it nearly losing her balance.

The sheriff sprang into action catching her shoulder. He sat next to her on the edge of the bed, facing her. His "Thirsty?" was met with a nod. As he poured her a drink, he answered what he knew. "No, I didn't bring you here. You came in an ambulance with Sasha. I'm texting her right now, to let her know you're awake." Rick went to his call log and found Sasha.

 **She's up**

He kept it short and hoped Sasha was far enough away that he could prolong this one little moment alone with her.

Michonne pulled her blankets back and palmed her forehead. "I feel funny." She repeated in a muffled tone as she took a sip holding her hands around his as he brought the cup up to her mouth.

"They have you sedated. They think you had a panic attack."

As soon as he said that Michonne recalled bits and pieces of the conversation she had with Mike. She nodded slowly with long exaggerated dips of her head. Her face began to contort as she tried to hold back a sob but only made it louder, hitching her breath.

Rick placed the cup back on the table. "Shhhh." He finally embraced her, sweeping all her pieces together into his arms and she settled there on his shoulder. "You're alright." He whispered, dragging his hand up and down her back.

She sank down, releasing a torrent of therapeutic tears. It felt safe in his arms, like a wall around her. She just let herself fall apart completely for the first time since all this happened.

When she cried around Sasha or Tyreese or even by herself, there was still some part of her trying to be strong- some part of her bruised and battered psyche trying to stand tall against this pain. But she felt a burden lift as she held onto Rick for dear life and her wailing sobs bounced off the walls, drowned in his neck and reached a pitch that was so visceral she made no sound at all.

All he could do was rock her and sooth her with his hands and his voice. He mimicked her tight grip on him and before he knew it, he instinctively kissed her temple and then the side of her face. It happened so fast he hoped she hadn't noticed.

It wasn't much different from the way he'd kiss Carl or little Judith if they were hurt and seeking refuge in his arms. It was just an ingrained by-product of his care when he loved someone and he instantly felt that truth punch him in the gut as his lips tenderly brushed her skin. But when she pulled away, her dark wet eyes meeting his cool blues, he became uneasy.

"Sorry," he whispered, apologizing for crossing a line. He stood up still holding her hand. She didn't say anything, she just looked stunned and shook her head. Rick didn't know if she was saying no to his apology or no to the kiss.

And he wouldn't know any time soon because in walked Sasha, dropping her things on the bed and effectively ending their private moment.

"Bitch, were you waiting for me to leave?" Sasha chuckled through tears as she took Michonne's face in her hands and joked about her timing.

She looked down between them and noticed Michonne was still holding Rick's hand. The smile fell away from Sasha's face and she sat down somberly, where he had been sitting, holding the other hand of her friend. "How do you feel?"

Before she could answer, a faint knock came to the door. "Come in," Sasha called back.

Maggie Rhee gently stepped in. "Hi, Ms. Williams, Ms. August." Maggie approached the foot of the small bed. "Heard you were back with us. How are you feelin'?" She asked her sympathetically.

"I can't really say. I'm too drugged up." Michonne gave a tiny smile, wiping her eyes. Rick handed her a tissue from the box on the table.

Maggie regarded Rick suspiciously. "Well, hopefully you can get some rest while you're here. I'll be work'n 'round the hospital if you need me for anythang at all. Okay? I'm gonna let you rest now." She patted the bed cheerily, smiled at Sasha, then looked up at Rick. "Sheriff, can I talk to you in the hall for a second." Rick went with Maggie, Michonne's big eyes following him out the door.

"Hey." Maggie greeted him flatly as he leaned in to hear her better over the normal commotion in the hospital hallways.

"Hey." Rick raised his brow, waiting for her to speak.

"You, uhhh..." Maggie believed that words mattered, so she searched for the right ones. She threw her eyes back toward the room where the two women were waiting, "You okay?" She broke the ice, trying to get a feel for him.

"Yeah." He looked back at the door too, then at the floor, hands on his hip and the butt of his gun. That was a bad sign for Maggie. She knew that stance meant he was feeling guilty or hiding something.

"Yeah? You seem weird. What are you doin' here?" She narrowed her eyes to study him closer.

Rick stared at the floor, "Same as you. Just checkin' on 'er."

"And the other night?" Maggie broached a subject she promised herself she'd stay out of. "You were at her house?"

"Not her house, Sasha's hou-... How… How do you know that?" He now looked her in the face.

"Andrea called me." Maggie immediately brought an irritated sigh out of him.

"Of course, Andrea called you." He rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't see what the big deal is." He looked back toward the floor. "Don't worry about me. Andrea _definitely_ doesn't have to worry about me."

"She still cares about you Rick. I do too," Maggie said kindly trying to meet his eyes that were still plastered to the sea foam linoleum. "We just want to make sure you're not... creating a situation for yourself here."

Rick nodded his head with a disingenuous smile. "I love you." He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek.

"I love you, too. So does Andrea."

"Andrea..." Rick paused and switched gears. "Look, you're my sister, Mags. I know I can't stop you... I wish I could," he chuckled, "but I can't." He picked his eyes up off the floor again to make sure she grasped his next words. "But Andrea doesn't need to worry about me. I wish her the best, but..."

"She just made a mistake, Rick. It isn't the same as Lori. Lori did what she did for years. Andrea just had a moment of weakness," Maggie defended her.

Rick scoffed and cut his eyes away with disdain. "Look," he dropped the subject of Andrea, "I'm okay. Really. I'll see you later." He felt a twinge of guilt, being rude and shutting his little sister down like that, but she wasn't going to change his mind. He walked back towards Michonne's room.

"I'm gonna call you later," Maggie hollered out after him.

Michonne had disappeared back under the covers. "She fell asleep again. She's pretty much out of it." Sasha told Rick as she looked to her friend, rubbing her leg. "She told me to tell you thank you for coming to check on her. She made me swear to go home since they're going to keep her under observation overnight."

'Do you have a ride home? If not, I can take you." Rick offered as Sasha put on her coat to leave.

"No, I came in the ambulance with her. But I can call an Uber."

"Uber?" He scoffed. "That's dumb... I'm takin' you home," Rick insisted, holding the door open for her to exit. "After you."

They drove the first ten minutes back to her apartment in dead silence. Rick finally chuckled at her stubborn meanness. With his eyes still on the road he observed, "Wow, you really do not like me, huh?"

Sasha cut her eyes back to him, "Look, I don't owe you conversation. I said I would take an Uber. I still can. Actually," she noted her location, "I'm not that far from home. I can fuckin' walk."

He laughed, "You're so stubborn you can't even think straight." He looked over at her. Her eyes narrowed looking right back at him. "Think about what you're sayin'... you would get out to walk 20 minutes in the cold, rather than ride 2 more minutes with me. That makes sense to you?" He looked at her, smiling.

"It makes more fuckin' sense than you do," she snipped.

"Elaborate," Rick permitted.

"What do you want with Michonne?" She questioned him, cocking her head to the side regarding him defiantly.

"What do I _want_ with her?" He laughed through his repetition of her words.

He laughed alone. Sasha just stared at him.

"I told you, I want her to be okay... I'm just concerned about her and I want to make sure she's okay."

"And you do that for all the upset mothers you meet, I guess." Sasha threw back at him sarcastically. "You must be Superman. There must be grieving mothers all over the county. How the fuck do you do it all?"

Now Rick was silent.

Sasha concluded, "That's what I thought. Does that make any damn sense to you? She doesn't need you to be her Superman. She doesn't need you to be her blue-eyed savior," she mocked him. "She's got me. She's got Tyreese. We've got her back."

"Why wouldn't you want as many people to have her back as possible?"

"You forgot what happened at Robinson Park? How the whole community fucked your shit up?" Sasha chuckled a little at the memory. "Because they got her back, too. You need to count them stitches again?"

Rick took her crack at him in stride and kept his focus on the truth of the matter. "Protests and lawsuits... that may help the cause… but Michonne is a person… a woman… with a beautiful heart. All those people who met you at Robinson Park, they gonna be there for her years from now?

Sasha went shrill in disbelief, "Are you?" Before he could formulate an answer, she was answering for him, "No. You're not. You and her are on opposite sides."

"We're not."

"Yeah right. Andrea told Michonne you're gonna protect your department no matter what." Rick gripped the wheel a little tighter but managed to take a deep breath and hold his tongue in regards to Andrea.

He pulled through the guard post at her complex after she showed her ID and pulled up to her building. "Look, Michonne is important…" he held his breath and added, "to me. She's special." Sasha groaned like she was sitting through an off key song and dance. "I admit I treat her different..." He took the focus off of himself and questioned her, "Why is that bad? Don't you think she's important. Ain't she special?"

"You have no fuckin idea and you never will. Thanks for the ride." She got out quickly and slammed the door. Rick just watched her leave and waited until she got in safely.

 _Jesus_ , he thought to himself, feeling like he'd just been in a cage match and barely made it out alive.


	7. Chapter 7: Good Save

**Good Save**

Rick had barely decompressed from Sasha's tumultuous ride in his car before his phone buzzed in his truck's center console. He gave a weary smile when he read the caller's name on the screen. Still, he was happy it was Glenn and not Glenn's wife.

"She's really upset, huh?" Rick skipped the greetings and got right to the situation at hand. Glenn's timid laughter came spilling from the other end. "She told me she'd call me later, but if you're callin' me, she must be too upset to get her words together."

"More worried than upset," Glenn corrected. "You know she's just really sensitive. She wouldn't be so good at the job she does if she wasn't so empathetic."

"I know."

Defending his wife, he reminded her brother, "You're like that too, you know."

"I know."

"Anyway… she thinks you've got a crush."

Rick clenched his jaw at his feelings being interpreted with such childish phrasing. "I think I'll leave the crushes to Carl," he politely disagreed.

"So are you saying it's more than that?" Glenn was caught off guard by the possibility that his brother-in-law's feelings went deeper. "Wait, am I missing something? What's going on?"

It was the same question Rick had been asking himself since he first laid eyes on Michonne draped in gold satin with silvery tears tracking her cheeks and felt the nascent stirrings in his chest. Something happened to him. The night he conversed with her on Sasha's couch, there had been no small talk. He wondered what was going on as he broke open the most definitive moments of his life for her.

And today when she made him her personal wailing wall and the tears she left on his chest turned his drab uniform a richer brown as deep as her eyes, he was in the clouds despite the sadness of the moment. After that, Rick found it impossible to be jarred by Sasha's wrath. Her objections left him unfazed. His foremost thoughts stayed centered on his inexplicable but undeniable connection to Michonne.

If there was an answer for what it was, it wasn't anything he could understand. He simply shook his head sighing with the magnitude of an answer too ponderous to speak.

"Maggie thought I just had a crush, too, at first." Reading his friend's wordless reflection to his question correctly, Glenn filled the silence with their shared memories of his grade school flirtations with Maggie. Rick immediately got the point and his somber face split with a quiet scoff.

"But it was love," Glenn continued. "It's gotten deeper and stronger with time, but ever since the day I saw her and her purple framed glasses in second period science class, I fell in love. I knew one day she'd wear contacts and be my wife."

Rick chuckled, remembering how Maggie hated those glasses, even more than she pretended to hate Glenn. "You had to convince a lot of people. Our parents, your parents and especially Maggie."

"Oh, _she_ still doesn't believe it even to this day. If you ask her about it, she'll tell you we didn't really notice each other until high school. She swears we fell in love after college." Glenn admitted, "But even then, as a kid, I knew… I totally loved her. Remember she agreed to go with me to our Valentine's Day dance in the sixth grade?"

"Long as you promised you both could sit out all the slow songs." Rick recalled his sister's single stipulation and laughed in earnest. "And you thought that meant you guys were official. The next day you showed up with flowers and she was sittin' on the porch with some other guy."

"Yeah. That hurt," Glenn admitted. "Hey, What was that guy's name?"

Rick tried to remember for a moment, then quickly gave up. "Shit. I don't know."

"Exactly," Glenn said smugly. "Nobody remembers. Maggie couldn't find that guy in a lineup. She couldn't say his name if you paid her. But you can't say Maggie unless you say Rhee." He paused to let that sink in for his brother-in-law.

"So many people tried to change my mind about being with Maggie. We had obstacles. All through college, we were on different sides of the country. We had to deal with prejudice, too. I mean, my mom wanted me to marry a nice Korean girl so bad. But I felt Maggie in my bones." Glenn ventured to ask, "You think, maybe, there's something like that going on with you an Andrea's client?

The obvious answer was yes, but referring to Michonne as Andrea's client soured his mouth before he could say so. "Sucks that Andrea's involved in this." Rick blew a forceful breath out through his nostrils. "I can't say anythang, though, because she really is a great lawyer. Can't say I'd trust Michonne's case to anyone else. But... fuck…"

"And Andrea's involvement means Maggie'll be getting regular updates."

"I still don't even get why Maggie campaigns for her so hard."

"Hey, man. It's your fault they even know each other."

"I know. But I didn't think they'd ever get close. They're so different. I definitely never thought Andrea would use Maggie to hound me after we broke up."

"Maggie's always looking out for you, Rick. I don't even think you could blame Andrea for that. Maggie was just so excited when you guys got together after everything with Lori. She thought Andrea was gonna change your life. She thought you were happy and she's very protective of your happiness, man."

"How's she figure I'm gonna be happy with a woman who I can't trust?"

"Now that part..." Glenn knew Maggie's thought process even better than her brother. "You know Andrea can be very persuasive. She has to be. And Maggie is a bleeding heart. She always wants to see the best in people… the real question is, how'd _you_ even think you could be happy with Andrea? You knew her reputation."

"It wasn't ever that serious with Andrea. I ain't even really care about her sleepin' with her ex. I mean we never really said we were exclusive, but it did open my eyes to the fact that I didn't want anymore complications like that in my life."

"Well, good job falling for her client. No complications there." Glenn chuckled out his sarcasm and Rick responded quickly.

"I don't care. She's worth it."

...

A nightmare in the early morning hours woke Michonne in a panic. She tossed and turned and finally sat up, unable to go back to sleep. Her head felt a little clearer than it did the last time she was awake, the hours of sleep lessening the effects of the sedative. She got up, went to the bathroom and took a shower.

Thankfully, Sasha had Tyrese bring Michonne a change of clothes. She felt so refreshed now that she was clean and dressed in something freshly laundered, although it was obvious that Big Boy had picked out this outfit. She shook her head at his fashion sense.

 _At least he knows to get me noodles instead of rice_ , she thought warmly of her sweet friend. At the thought of food, she peeked under the cover of her dinner tray. It looked like a mix of dog and baby food.

But she hadn't eaten all day, so she settled back in the bed and tested her appraisal of the brown meat-like substance and the bland-looking potatoes.

"God!" she rolled her eyes, whispering audibly at the taste. Refusing to swallow, she quickly reached for a paper napkin and spit it out.

Bored, Michonne grabbed the remote from the top of the metal cabinet beside her. The remote's position lying next to her cell phone was taking her mind places she'd rather not go. Her thoughts littered with a bevy of things attracting her to the sheriff, she looked at her phone, but fought the urge to pick it up. She thought about texting Sasha but she wouldn't wake up her friend just because she was lonely in the middle of the night. Sasha wasn't the person she wanted to talk to anyway.

Even though he'd told her to call him anytime, she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Her thoughts about him were so improper, when all he'd been was sweet to her. It wasn't just physical attraction, though that was undeniable. Mostly she just felt so drawn to him. It was harmless. A thick and fluffy feeling… like a pillow playfully placed over her face.

She fantasized about laying on his chest, weeping, while he promised her he'd always be there whenever she needed him. That daydream made her happy even though she was so sad. That's what the thought of him did to her-

made her happy even though she was sad.

It alarmed her how much she thought about him. She felt a little obsessed with him. So when he appeared in her hospital room like a manifested dream, giving her water and holding her tight, the tears that sprang up for the son she'd lost turned into sobs of relief that he was there. Still, she commanded herself not to put any of that on him.

Instead, she grabbed the remote and flipped through channels, unsatisfied, eventually settling for a rerun of Family Feud.

 **"We surveyed 100 people- Name something that goes bump in the night." The host quizzed the two contestants in front of him.**

 **"Vampires."**

 **"Ghosts!"**

 **"Zombies!"**

 **"Aliens?"**

Without permission, Michonne's mind started thinking on how many people had probably died at this hospital, how many ghosts there could be lurking around her. She didn't believe in ghosts, but she was always wary of the supernatural.

Once, when Sasha pulled out a Ouija board at a sleepover, Michonne lit out of there like a rocket. Sasha and even Sasha's mom had laughed at her until their sides ached. Michonne thought about that memory and laughed to herself.

But memories link in strange ways and she went from smiling fondly at her irrational fears to misty eyes, thinking about how scared Andre must have been when the police pulled Mike over.

 _"Daddy!"_

She could hear his panicked voice echo in her head.

She thought about what it must feel like to get shot and how he must have gasped for air when the bullets ripped through his little chest. She had been in the courtroom once when a forensic specialist described what a gunshot wound to the chest does to the human body. She never forgot it. She really wished she could jettison the details from her memory. Suddenly she had to get out of that hospital as quickly as possible.

She snatched up her phone.

Found him in her contacts…

Gripped her phone tighter…

hesitated a second…

Said aloud how stupid this was...

and tapped call.

Rick jumped up, alarmed when his phone began to ring at 2:18 a.m. "Hello..." He threw off his covers and put his feet on the floor ready to go.

"Hi, Rick?" Michonne stuttered, hearing the worry in his voice. "Sorry... uh... this is Michonne..." She rolled her eyes and reminded herself, _He doesn't call you that_.

"Oh, Ms. August." Rick's adrenaline began to settle down.

She decided then that she'd demand he call her by her first name and help him pronounce it. It usually irritated her when people stuttered out her first name like it was some twenty letter extraterrestrial sound, though she anticipated having more patience for the judicious sheriff.

"Sorry it's so late..."

Rick rubbed his eyes and held the phone out in the dark to check the time. "Are you… you okay?" He asked her, full of worry, before she could even say anything.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

He let his shoulders relax. "Good." He exhaled, rubbing his hand through his hair, "Good," he repeated in a whisper.

Now he was wondering about what she could want with him in the middle of the night. It's not like he didn't stay up late sometimes scrolling Facebook, which he rarely used, just so he could have his phone in his hand in case she called. He couldn't pretend he didn't feel phantom vibrations when his phone was in his pocket. He definitely imagined what he'd say to her if she was ever on the other end of a call. But he had given her his number over a week ago and she never used it.

He thought, maybe, she was calling because she was upset that he'd kissed her earlier. You creeped her out, he told himself regretfully. He clicked on the lamp, looking down at his large feet as he sat on the edge of the bed in only his boxer briefs, his mouth suddenly dry.

Michonne began again, "I... um... thanks for coming to check on me earlier. I was really out of it."

He hoped she was too doped up to remember the two kisses he'd dropped to her face. He tried to hold in a yawn. "Did you get some rest?"

"I did. Thanks... and now I'm interrupting _your_ rest. I'm really sorry."

"Thought we agreed that you can't use sorry with me?"

Michonne smiled wide, "Okay… well, maybe it would help if you stopped calling me Ms. August and called me Michonne."

Now, Rick beamed. "Okay, fair enough."

"I know cops… sometimes work a night shift… I thought maybe, possibly, you would be at work right now and I wouldn't be bothering you."

"I haven't worked the night shift in a while. Perks of bein' sheriff," He was glad to tell her, remembering how much Lori hated it when he slept all day only to be gone all night. "But I told you to call me if you needed anythang. I meant it. Obviously, you know I meant it. So you're not botherin' me. Are you?" He asked, his tone indicating he actually wanted an answer from her to drive the point home.

She chuckled bashfully, "No?"

"No. You're not."

"Um… Is your son with you tonight?"

"No. He just went home from his visit."

She reminded herself that calling was stupid enough. It probably wasn't a good idea to be weird, bringing up his son and then going dark. She summoned her courage through a hurried exhale.

"Uh, this is dumb," her weakened voice croaked and she cleared her throat giving herself a second more to reconsider. She continued, "This hospital is really starting to freak me out and I was hoping you..." Her muscles stiffened anxiously, "...could come and get me?

"Yeah, I'll be right over," he said, squeezing his eyes tight and chastising himself for jumping so desperately at the request.

"Umm, Okay... thanks. See you in a bit," she said pushing her bottom lip between her teeth. She felt hot and lightheaded at the thought of seeing him for the second time that day, but she reveled in the heat.

Michonne hung up and rang for the nurse, who came right in. "I'm... going to leave." She slowly stood up and surveyed the room, looking for her belongings. "I'm feeling much better, and I think I'm going to go now."

The graying nurse did not object. "Well that's your choice. Do you have a ride? You can't drive until 24 hours after that sedative was administered."

"Yes." Michonne smiled as a nervous heat rose into her cheeks. "I have a ride. He's coming now."

"Is he willing to sign you out? He has to sign that he'll be responsible for getting you home."

"Sure." She promised, racing around the room to gather her things.

She noticed how terrible she looked in the mirror and tried to improve things by putting her hair in a bun and a little sheen of hospital grade petroleum jelly on her lips. Then she realized what she must've looked like when he came before, with the added bonus of a heroin addict's demeanor. She rolled her eyes at herself and shook her head.

She was sitting on the bed in her jeans and oversized, long sleeved Winnie the Pooh tee (that she normally lounged in), her purse in her lap, tapping her toes in her red ballet flats when Rick and the nurse knocked at the door. They exchanged a reserved "Hi" not really feeling comfortable saying anything more to each other in front of hospital staff. He took her things and the nurse wheeled her down to the lobby and handed her off to Rick who had pulled his truck around to the discharge exit.

He helped her up into the cab of the big truck and ran back to the driver's side away from the frigid air and back to her warm presence. "Cold?" Rick asked when he noticed her huddled over her lap. She had a coat but living with Maggie, his mom and Lori had taught him that women were always chillier than they had cause to be.

"A little." She smiled over at him shyly.

"Sorry." He turned the heat all the way up and felt the vents blowing cool air. "It'll warm up in a minute."

"This is not my winter coat. I guess Sasha just grabbed this when they brought me to the hospital." Michonne explained, looking straight out the windshield and rubbing her arms to create a little warmth.

Rick noticed her discomfort and kept reaching up to feel the vents as if it would warm the engine any quicker. He stretched an arm into the backseat, keeping his eyes on the road. "You see a coat back there?" Michonne looked behind her and held up the brown bomber-style jacket for him to see. "Yeah. That's it. It's my uniform coat. I know it's warm. Most of the time I get hot in it. Wrap yourself in that til the heat gets goin'."

Michonne did just that. Bringing the collar up to her neck, she put the coat on backwards. The lining was cold from being left in the truck so she shivered a little more violently while she waited for her body heat to warm her. She tried to inconspicuously bring the collar of his jacket to her nose. She loved his smell. It was like lightning-charged air and rain-slicked, summer-baked sidewalks. She closed her eyes with a deep inhale.

He saw her trying to hide the fact that she was smelling his coat and apologized, "Sorry, if that jacket has a little bit of guy stink on it. I was gonna take it to the cleaners in the mornin'."

"It smells fine." She said as she laughed at his terminology and used the conversation as a cover to take a big whiff of the jacket again. "Nope. No 'guy stink' detected."

They both laughed, reverberating with the excitement of being together again. "Oh shit." Rick suddenly exclaimed when he read the exit sign they were speeding pass. He smiled bashfully. "Uh, I never asked you where I was takin' you. I'm on auto-pilot, headed for my house."

"That's okay." She smiled a little as she looked around out the window and tried to get her bearings. "Ummmm. I don't really want to wake Sasha up. So... I... guess you can just take me to my house."

He noticed her reluctance to step foot inside the place where she'd raised the child she lost and he was already resolved to take her literally anywhere she asked. He would have been happy to settle her wherever she wanted and plant himself right next to her for as long as she needed him there. "I don't have to take you home if you ain't ready to go back yet. There somewhere else you want to go?"

"No. I don't really know anybody else well enough." It wasn't technically a lie. She knew Aaron would let her stay, but she couldn't say she really knew him well enough to wake him up at 3 a.m. "But... do you mind... I hate to ask..."

Rick gave a deep sigh for effect, "Just ask Miss... I mean Michonne. I swear to you, I don't mind."

"Good save." She cocked her brow at the use of her first name, finally. Her heart ramped up in surprise at his perfect elocution and the giftwrap of it's honeyed thickness. "Okay. I haven't eaten all day. I just couldn't with that hospital food. It was..."

He cut her off, "Let's get you fed then. Where'd ya wanna go?"

"Is anything open this time of night?"

"Oh yeah. I keep forgettin' it's 3:00 in the mornin'." He remembered, "There's a 24-hour pancake house not too far from here."

Being the picky eater that she was, she attempted to agree to pancakes even though she definitely was not in the mood for pancakes. She told herself not to be that girl right now, but her face betrayed her with an involuntary crinkle of her nose.

"Okay. So that's a NO for pancakes," he concluded with a chuckle.

He was absolutely sure she was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. He adored how vocal her features were when she was trying to deny herself. It was the same mask he caught a glimpse of whenever she tried to dial down their connection for the sake of convention. For fear of spooking her, he wouldn't call her out, but he wished she could see that he was someone she could truly trust.

He was working to gain that confidence when he asked, "What do you have a taste for?"

"I don't know... Comfort food. Where can we get some comfort food?"

Rick couldn't help thinking they really should go to his house. It actually made perfect sense. His fridge was fully stocked from Carl's recent visit. His grocery bill was always double, sometimes triple whenever he'd have him for the week. For Rick cooking was a necessity now, for Carl it was just fun for them to do it together.

Only problem was, he'd kissed her earlier. It was innocent enough, but now suggesting that they go to his house at this late hour could be misunderstood. One thing was for sure though, nowhere else was going to be open. He decided to just ask her before the question dissolved on his tongue.

"You like gumbo?"

"If it's done right, I love it. There's a place open that serves it this late?"

"Well," he sat up straighter and gripped the steering wheel like an anchor. "I have almost a full pot at my house. It's Carl's favorite, so I know it's good. We could go there... unless you feel weird about it."

Michonne's heart fluttered, his suggestion catching her off guard. But her brain was working hard to override that excitement. _Just say 'no thank you'_ , she told herself, without much conviction. _You just keep digging a deeper and deeper hole for yourself. You get involved with this man... Sasha will literally fight you._ She unintentionally kept him in suspense, weighing the pros and cons. _But you're assuming he's attracted to you. He probably doesn't feel the way you feel. He's just a nice guy. A good man… who's already done way more than he should._

"I... uhhh," she hesitated.

"So that's a no, too. I understand." Rick felt disappointed but not heartbroken. _Okay, not a big surprise,_ he thought optimistically. _She said no and you didn't die_.

But just then, the plump apples of her cheeks, lifted in a promising smile and gave him hope.

"No," Michonne corrected him. "I'm not saying no. Just... I don't want to impose." She knew she couldn't look at him without giving away how happy she was about his suggestion, so she stared into her own eyes in the passenger side mirror.

"I wouldn't mind a little more imposition." Rick said in a blatantly suggestive tone and cringed with immediate regret. He was perplexed by his lack of filter in her presence. He scolded himself, yet somehow remained determined to throw caution to the wind. To his relief Michonne just giggled and thanked him.

Rick had turned the radio down to collect his thoughts on his drive to the hospital. He had told himself a lot of things that the sight of her face and the sound of her voice made him forget immediately: things not to say, things not to do, what thoughts to keep at bay, and here he was acting a fool.

He smiled to himself before engaging her again. "What kinda music you like?"

He raised the volume to his country station. 'American Kids' by Kenny Chesney twanged over the air. It was one of his favorites that usually made him drum his dashboard to the beat as he sang along with Carl. It took a lot of self-control to be cool and say, "We can listen to whatever you want."

Then, from force of habit, he inadvertently imposed one of his rules for Carl on the grown woman next to him. "No rap music, though." Michonne was visibly taken aback and Rick began to fluster, "I mean, sorry, I don't let my son listen to that stuff. You can listen to it if you want... obviously.

"You don't like rap?" She lifted a curious brow. Rick couldn't tell if he was reading offense or the satisfaction of a proven hunch on her face.

"Never really listened to it, but what I've heard," he shook his head, "nah, I don't like it."

"And why not?" She decided to give him a hard time to see how he'd react.

Rick inhaled deeply, preparing for what could be an argument. "Honestly?" He turned to her, ready to speak his mind. She nodded for his honest opinion.

"I don't like how they talk about women, like they hold no value... like one can be easily replaced with another... or one woman ain't enough. I don't want my son hearin' that garbage... being told that lovin' somebody makes you weak. That's a personal attack on sensitive romantics such as myself." He placed his hand dramatically over his heart, exaggerating sincerity to hide just how sincere he was. "It doesn't bother you?" He asked her, deeply curious.

"I mean, not really. If it doesn't apply to me, I don't worry about it," she shrugged. "I don't... didn't let my son listen to explicit lyrics either, but, I just feel like my job was more about setting a good example of what a woman is... you know?" Rick nodded but his expression called bullshit. "You don't agree, huh?"

Rick gave a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgement. "You gotta set a good example... but..."

"But?"

"These rappers are flashin' money, cars, jewelry... I guess I just don't like that people glamorize that kinda thinkin'. Our daughters will be out in the world with these idiots one day and wind up with broken hearts or... worse... because some punk believes what 'Lil' Whoever' said about women over a catchy beat. That shit makes me sick to my fuckin' stomach."

Michonne giggled at his passionate use of profanity. She had already been enamored by his sex appeal, now he was just being cute and it killed her. "I see your point… But, so... What? Your country music doesn't objectify women? It's hard to find anything in this 'man's world' that doesn't."

"I'm sure someone, somewhere would say yes. But I think, for the most part, it encourages us to hold the door... work hard to provide... songs about marriage and family and being content with what you have."

She found herself admiring him again, like she had the night of the riot. "So, that's the kind of stuff you believe in? Marriage and family, working hard to provide..."

"Yeah." He chuckled at her tone of disbelief, he repeated, "That's the kind of stuff I believe in. What? You don't believe in that kind of stuff?"

"It sounds pretty. But the real world is not a pretty place," Michonne sighed.

"You just feel that way 'cos you never been with a guy who was raised on country music." He slouched to the side with a playful swagger, driving one-handed while giving her a self-assured half smile. "Listen to this one."

He turned up the radio a little more. 'H.O.L.Y.' by Florida Georgia Line was playing. For days now, every time he heard it, the resounding keys of the piano and the signature twang of the country guitar accompanied his thoughts about Michonne and the magnetic pull to her that he didn't want to fight, even though he knew he should.

When the chorus came in he started to playfully serenade her. Rick slapped the steering wheel enthusiastically to the beat, "You're holy, holy, holy, holy. I'm high on lovin' you, high on lovin' you!"

Michonne couldn't help but laugh. When Rick leaned a little closer to her, holding a note, she wanted to kiss those smooth pink lips so badly and pass her fingers through his uncombed hair. Even though he'd never make a dime off a microphone, he didn't sound half bad. She smiled and swayed to his crooning and the piano's recurring chords.

He sang louder, "I don't need these stars 'cos you shine for me... like fire in my veins, your my destiny... you're my destiny..."

Michonne just shook her head at his antics, enjoying every minute of it. She thought he was crazy as she smiled in his direction. The kind of crazy that would stand against a riot to bare his heart. The kind of crazy that would still love an innocent baby girl despite the pain her parents put him through. The kind of crazy that drove her a little crazy, too, and made her want to follow him to any padded cell he chose. She marveled at him.

 _Just look at those eyes…_

The song ended and she brought her arms out from the coat to give him a round of applause.

"Thank you, thank you. I'm here all night," he joked with a half bow.

"It's a pretty good show." Michonne nodded happily. "And that was a good song. I liked it."

"That's my song. I guess I'll share it with you." He looked out into the black highway smirking.

"Very generous." Just then her stomach growled, even above the music playing. Their eyes met and they giggled.

"You can't be hungry. Sounds like you swallowed a whole bear," he teased. "How does such a big noise come from such a little body.

She covered her face under his coat. "That's so embarrassing! How much longer before we get to your house?" She peeked out from his collar.

"Uhh… we're about 30 minutes away."

She shrugged happy she wouldn't die of hunger before she got there. Then she realized, "Wait, 30 minutes?" A puzzled look took over her face. "You got to the hospital in like 20..."

He blushed. "I... might have been speedin' a little." He measured with a barely parted thumb and index finger. "You sounded really upset. I had to come save you." He mocked her best friend's sarcastic comment and, in a way, he mocked himself. "Sasha thinks I have a Superman complex... maybe she's right."

"There are worse complexes to have, I guess. When did she say that?"

"Today. I took her home from the hospital after you made her leave."

"Oh my God. You've been running all over the place today because of me. I..."

"If you say I'm sorry, I'm gonna make you walk."

Michonne chortled. "I was gonna say I can't believe she went anywhere with you," She quickly saved face. "You're not her favorite person. I don't know if you could tell," Michonne joked, wondering how Rick had become Sasha's sworn enemy. "So, how did that ride go?" She chuckled, curious.

"Not as well as this one, let me tell ya." He laughed along. "I think I'm her sworn enemy." Michonne felt a little giddy when it seemed he'd read her mind. "I told her to stop actin' stupid and bein' so mean."

Michonne drew a breath in shock, "No you didn't!" Her mouth hung open. "So you got cussed out today, huh?"

"Nope."

"Oh, whatever. I know Sasha."

"Nope. She stopped actin' stupid and let me take her home. I mean, there was some cussin'..."

"Of course. That's Sash."

"But I wouldn't say I got 'cussed out'.. She's very skeptical of me, though."

"I know." Michonne agreed, with half her mind on how he could have said that to Sasha and was sitting there beside her unscathed.

"I think it goes beyond my badge," Rick spoke insightfully.

"Yeah, your badge, your skin, your gender. The odds are stacked against you where she is concerned," Michonne let him know in no uncertain terms.

"What about you?" He looked to her, pondering, then turned his eyes back to the road when the glowing highway lights dotted over her skin and illuminated her eyes in the dark as she looked back.

"Me?"

"It don't seem like you mind those things about me." He was happy to say that and even happier to hear her response.

"I don't."

"Why not?"

Michonne shook her head at the obvious answer. "Because," she started as nervousness crept up her spine and she looked back out the window. "Your badge is just something you wear. You had no control over your race and your gender..."

She couldn't help but look him up and down as he eyed the road. His profile, strong. His eyes crinkling as he smiled at her words. "Well, your gender... has it's uses." She laughed at the brazenness of her comment. A big laugh, touting the sun and stars. "Wait, that sounded terrible..." she sought to redeem herself.

But Rick agreed too quickly, "Yeah, it did. You sound like an evil villain bent on world domination." His laughter faded as he marveled at her beauty in full bloom. "I guess I better stay useful to you then."

"Yeah. I guess you better."


	8. Chapter 8: Make Yourself at Home

**Make Yourself at Home**

Michonne found out that she really liked country music. Though in all honesty, she could find the rhythm in radio static if he sung along. But she swore to Rick that not all rap music was what he thought it was and she promised to introduce him to some of her favorite artists, maybe take him to a show sometimes.

As soon as she said it, flashbacks of the unrest outside his station made her think that scenario might be impossible. Then again, she thought, Andre's life ending in such a cruel way seemed impossible too. If mind-boggling misfortune could sprout from nowhere, perhaps there was unfathomable joy growing somewhere on her path as well.

She crept around that idea, afraid to pick it up. Still, her hands seemed to itch for it the more she was with Rick Grimes.

Wrapped in his scent, surrounded by his voice, eyes full of his form- she felt cheated of the 30 minute ride he promised her. The ease of conversation on the way to his house made time speed by needlessly. But once she was there in the novelty of his living space she found the naturalness they'd had in the car had to be nurtured all over again in these new surroundings.

"Make yourself at home," he told her as he stepped aside, holding the door so she could enter.

"Thanks." Michonne wondered how 'at home' she should make herself as she returned his coat to him and handed off her jacket as well, focusing on the grip of his large hands around the heavy items. Something about the act of taking off that outerwear made her think about their naked bodies in a tangle. She chastised herself for such thoughts, but they lingered.

Far from the street lights of town, he had a small three bedroom rancher tucked away a good distance down a driveway off the main road. Dark slate floor tiles led the way down the long vestibule in the middle of the house to the kitchen. A large rectangular mirror with a bulky frame hung midway down the hall giving Michonne a glimpse of herself as she followed him to the food. She looked at herself and tried to imagine what he was seeing.

Without the aid of hair pins the twisted bun atop her head had begun to flop. The ends of her locs broke ranks here and there and she tried to reposition them, quickly poking them back into the right place with her finger. In the seconds it took her to give herself a once over, Rick had noticed her primping in the mirror.

He leaned against the wall next to her reflection, his eyes locked to her face. The recessed light overhead sent a sweet golden luminosity over her features. He stood there, staring. He didn't say a word.

Michonne brought her hands down, embarrassed. "I look terrible," she said bashfully. "I'm usually more put together. I haven't been in the mood for makeup or anything." Rick continued to drink her in, but his expression gave no hint to his thoughts. With a sheepish tilt of her head, she looked up at him through her long dark lashes and asked, "What?"

He narrowed his eyes. His sultry gaze and deep timbre took her breath away. "Who says you need makeup?"

"Nobody. I just…"

"If I had my way those big brown eyes and those lips..." He shoved his hands down the pockets of his jeans. It was the only way to stop himself from reaching for her face and running his fingertips across the heart shaped curve of her mouth, "…your flawless skin, how it catches the light..."

He paused and Michonne came up for air, lost in his blazing stare. She had been reluctant to give into the idea that he was attracted to her. _If he says one more thing with that look like he's ready to lock me up and throw away the key, I swear I'm going to let him._ Standing there with bated breath, and barely managing to articulate her longing for the rest of that sentence, she whispered, "What?"

"Nothin'," he said, as his body tensed to keep himself from making another suggestive comment to her. It felt like he was using all the restraint available to him, which was dangerous seeing they had just walked through the door. He licked his lip slowly, followed by his straight white teeth scraping along his appealing pink pout. That King County drawl deepened, "You're a beautiful woman. Ain't no need to make up what God already made perfect."

The cotton fabric between her thighs dampened, but before her knees could buckle, he threw his head toward the kitchen, "Come on, 'fore you starve."

"Living Room..." he pointed to the gorgeous space on his right. "Bedrooms are through there."

Dark wood, stark white walls, rich fabrics and vibrant green accents on floating shelves made her pause for a moment to take it all in. Michonne was a little insulted. His bachelor pad seemed to put her home's decor to shame.

He stuck his arm in a door on his left and clicked the light, "Bathroom." A rich gold leaf wallpaper with a large palm leaf motif and a black and white checkerboard tile drew her eye and she quirked an eyebrow at the emerald guest towels folded neatly over the towel rack.

He led her a few more steps down the corridor and opened another door to his left. A linen-less bed was covered with random parts to an unfinished shelving unit and cardboard boxes of various sizes completed the clutter. It was the first room in his house that didn't make her feel like she was walking through a magazine.

"This is the guest room," he announced. "It ain't done and it's full of crap 'cos we never use it. But if you wanna stretch out once you're full, you can take my room and I'll sleep in my son's room."

Michonne simply gave him a polite smile, the prospect of laying her body in his bed leaving her speechless. She was quick to wrest her eyes off him and reroute her thoughts. The decor was very masculine but it didn't look like a man lived there. Certainly not a man like Rick Grimes.

"Your place is gorgeous." Her eyes kept wandering. "You decorated all this?"

"Yeah, right." He scoffed, knowing he was incapable. "Could've saved a lot of money if I did. Would look more..." he searched for the word he'd learned from his decorator, "minimalist... waaaay more empty if I did."

He threw on the light in the large kitchen featuring vaulted atrium ceilings. The unlit blackness of the partly cloudy sky spread out over them as if the moon and stars were hiding to eavesdrop. A heavy looking butcher block island sat in the middle of the space with two metal stools.

"No. This lady, Zia. Her and her wife Diane did it. Somebody told me my place looked like a neanderthal's cave. So I went from Fred Flintstone to George Jetson... Zia's words, not mine."

He paused. He could never remember how old she was. Her demeanor was more mature than his ex-wife's, but her face apparently couldn't tell time. Her youthful smile at his reference made him doubt she knew the characters from what would now be considered the stone age of American TV.

"Oh," he excused her, in case she was unfamiliar. "Maybe you don't remember those cartoons..."

Michonne chuckled and joked along with him, referencing the Jetson's housekeeping robot, "Where's Rosie?"

He felt relieved by her acquaintance with the childlike imagining of a flying future with metal android maids. He was still skeptical as he scanned her perfect dusky skin. "Ain't got a Rosie," he confessed. "But the fridge has Wi-Fi, bluetooth and tells me when I'm out of milk." Rick said, sounding amazed himself. "Carl knows how to work it better'n I do."

"You know, you shouldn't make references about the Jetson's," she suggested with a tease, "It dates you."

"Yeah, my Jetson's reference is what dates me," he said sarcastically. "Not my gray hair or these wrinkles?" He pointed to the faint creases at his eyes when he smiled.

She thought he must have been joking, standing there looking every bit the Boss male model in a faded navy henley and a saturated stare to match. "No, those distinguish you." Michonne smiled coyly and walked herself to the other side of the kitchen, a safe distance away from his radiating energy. She found a distraction checking out the massive stainless steel ice box.

Pictures, of who she assumed was his son, Carl, floated onto the tablet-sized screen built into the fridge door. Some were baby pictures and some were taken recently, she could tell. Pictures of the two of them fishing, camping, hunting (she assumed from the camouflage outfits and guns). Carl was a handsome young man who played baseball... since he was very small, it seemed.

 _White guy's idea of a perfect son,_ she assumed and chuckled at the irony that she was racially profiling the police.

Unpredictably, her emotions changed and almost got the better of her when she realized Andre would never experience any of the things she saw in the pictures. She pushed those feelings down urgently before the tears started and refused to stop. But she couldn't help but think if Mike had been a man like Rick, or a man at all, her son would be safe and sound, alive and well.

There were also pictures of a blonde little girl, nowhere as many as the boy, though. _This must be his 'Call-Maury baby'. She's a cutie._

Michonne watched pictures fade to black as new ones appeared. She found herself wishing that Rick would have his ex-wife in at least one picture. She was really curious about what he was physically attracted to and what kind of woman has another man's baby while married to a man like Rick. But she didn't think it was likely that he'd have one.

She sure didn't have any pictures of her ex up at her house. She figured the ex Mrs. Grimes was tucked away somewhere in a photo album for his son's sake, like the few pictures she had of Mike.

Without realizing, Michonne was humming the tune to 'their' song and it did not escape Rick's notice. He crept up behind her as she stood there perusing the digital images, lost in her thoughts. He leaned into her ear.

"Let me hear you sing it," he rasped.

She jumped nearly off the ground, clutching her chest with a yelp. She slapped the practical joker across his bicep as he stirred a bowl pressed to his belly. His mischievous laughter was turning hysterical and Michonne rolled her eyes closed as she tried to steady her heart rate.

"Sorry!" He snorted, "I was just sayin' I wanna hear you sing."

"Trust me, you don't. Sasha sings, I dance." She quickly corrected, "Well, used to dance..."

"Yeah? You don't no more?"

"Except for the occasional two step with my vacuum."

Rick's curiosity grew. "What kinda dancin' were you doin' before you stopped."

"At church, I did a praise routine." She leaned over on her elbows at the counter, spinning the salt shaker as she remembered fondly. "Sasha would sing a hymn and I would accompany her song with choreography."

"So, they let you dance in church?"

"Yeah. It was a small church. They always tried to get the kids involved. Since I was the captain of the majorette team at school, they let me prance and twirl around the stage in all white."

Her index and middle finger became her legs as she walked them across the kitchen island. She traipsed her nails elegantly, swirling and skating across the smooth wooden surface like the pointed toes of a ballerina.

"I would dance away the pews and the people, my parents, the piano. I couldn't even hear Sasha sing. I could only hear my breath and the rumble of my feet when I did a running leap. It was the only time when I was younger that I felt free, close to… me."

Rick was mesmerized by the graceful motion of her dark slender digits and the slight tenor of longing for simpler times. He added seeing her dance to his bucket list, though he thought it might be a long time before she felt inspired to dance again. He promised himself, if he could, he would help her find reason enough to stretch and jump without the weight of the world on her neck.

She confessed, "I haven't been to church in a long time." Then realized, "The funeral will be the first time I've stepped foot in there since I was a teenager."

Steering clear of morbidity, Michonne quickly changed the subject to the polished environment around her. The digital appliances, the custom wall of seamless black cabinets, the olive-tinted quartz waterfall countertops- she was impressed. "This kitchen is really high end, Rick. Makes my house look like a Lemony Snicket set. You pull this kind of money from the county?" Michonne asked, eyes still on his memories.

He laughed at her joke and wondered if most people knew how funny she could be."Come on," he said in a playfully cynical tone as he leaned against the sink watching her examine his precious memories. "This is all divorce settlement money."

His statement went temporarily over Michonne's head as she was looking intently at a picture of a younger Rick in a different blue uniform, his arm thrown proudly over the shoulders of another guy identically dressed.

"Divorce settlement money?" Her shock was apparent in the pitch of her voice. "So you got divorced and came out with more money? I never heard of a man doing that before. Who was your lawyer? Anybody I know?"

"That guy right there, actually, my brother-in-law." He pointed to a picture of an Asian man in someone's backyard with his arms around a woman Michonne recognized.

"I know her... that's um... Mrs... uhhh,"

"Mrs. Rhee from the hospital. She's my sister, and that's her husband, Glenn," Rick explained. "Glenn says being a divorce lawyer keeps his marriage strong. He has endless examples of what not to do, watchin' people screw up their lives... even mine."

"But at least you got paid," Michonne shrugged.

"Yeah, that's what Glenn likes to say too." Rick chuckled wistfully. "He said I had the luckiest luck for bad luck in everythang." Michonne turned toward him, brow quirked, interested in hearing more.

He continued, "So… I got a baseball injury, just in time to miss my chance to go pro. That got my dad off my back and let me pursue law enforcement like I wanted to. Then usin' my service weapon devastated me," he walked around her and the island to get placemats, saucers and bowls out of the cabinets, "but that got me elected as sheriff. Then my wife left me for the governor..."

Michonne brows raised again in surprise, "The governor, Philip Blake?"

"That governor..." Rick confirmed, "But she was in such a hurry to marry him, she didn't fight to keep anything in the divorce. Philip likes to think it's because she was completely detached from everythang in her life with me. Her parents never wanted us to get married anyway after it was clear I wouldn't make it to the major leagues. They raised her on the finer thangs and a cop's salary wouldn't cut it. But I know Lori. The guilt was eatin' her up." He waved apathetically, "She's set now, though."

Michonne couldn't help but think of her mother as Rick explained the downfall of his marriage. She knew her grandmother had a lot to do with Gayle staying with Hugo for so long and even going back when she finally got away. That was why Michonne never listened when her parents told her to stay away from Mike. She wanted autonomy in her decisions.

Looking back, her relationship with Andre's dad ended just the way her parents had predicted. She couldn't be sure if she started dating Mike solely to defy her parents but she knew for sure she ignored too many of his faults. When she saw that relationship crumbling, instead of proving her parents right, she foolishly got pregnant to try and deepen feelings that were never really there.

The inexperience and the stupidity of youth had been her downfall then. She was more cautious now. Maybe too cautious. There hadn't been a man in her life since. Second-guessing her feelings, she wondered if maybe Sasha and Andrea saw something in Rick that she was choosing to ignore. It worried her.

Her final verdict was pity when it came to his ex-wife but with all her disquieting thoughts, she couldn't bring herself to deny what she was feeling now. She had left Mike so easily, but she knew she would never do what Lori did to Rick. Captured by the way his lips delivered every word he uttered and the candor in his voice, she listened to him talk about being abandoned. Her heart went out to him.

"To keep me from makin' this whole thing a scandal in the press, Phil made sure thangs went smooth as possible. So I got a pretty penny when I sold our big house that me and Lori bought to fill up with kids. Her parents gave us a generous down payment for it. They pretty much gave us that house, to be honest." He spoke matter-of-factly, "With that money, me and Carl designed this house and had it built just like we wanted. That was fun to do with him."

He opened the fridge and took out the big pot of gumbo and set it on the stove. "I treated myself to a lot of toys I always wanted: That truck, the pool out back, a little two-seater boat, a little camper. The big trampoline was Carl's idea. " He tacked on a sad sort of smile when it started to hurt for him again. "Lost my family and got a bunch of stuff that would be so much better if I had a family to share it with." He shrugged, "Luckiest bad luck in the world."

Michonne felt sorry for him despite his constructed smile and obvious material abundance. "Forgive me if this is out of line, but, it sounds like you only lost a below average woman, not your family. You still have your son."

The words came out before she could catch them and when she heard them she was thrown right back in all the pain she'd experienced the night she found out her son was gone. She quickly turned away from Rick and wiped the barrage of tears coming seemingly from nowhere.

Rick didn't know what to say. He quickly put down what he was doing at the stove and wrapped her in a hug again. "Hey," he whispered soothingly, "Hey. Oh, darlin'." Realizing what triggered her, he tried to find a way to get her out of that space in her head. "Have you talked to a professional since all this happened?"

He was starting to feel a new emotion when she cried. He no longer felt pity for her. An anger came up in him, now. He used to be a hot-headed young man. He'd found his way past those impulses as his hair begin to gray. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember feeling a rage like this, or a pair of eyes so beautiful- too beautiful to ever see sorrow. He pulled her close to his chest seeking not only to give her comfort but also to quiet the row his heart was in over seeing her in pain.

He spoke softly into the nest of hair on her head. "If I can arrange for you to speak to someone, would you? No pressure and whenever you're ready... I think it'll help. Would you let me?"

Michonne nodded. Her body heaved as she tried to compose herself against him. To her amazement, she succeeded and her roaring emotions mellowed listening to his beating heart.

"Sorry." She said reflexively, "I don't mean to weep in the middle of your kitchen."

"You an'ees sorrys," he drawled as he held her face in both his hands, "C'mon. Let's get some grub in ya."

He led her to the bar stool and sat her down in front of a placemat, bowl and spoon, identical to his setting beside her. She was quiet for the next few minutes as she sat there glancing from pictures on the fridge to the little things around his kitchen that might give her more insights on the man she barely knew but was so strangely drawn to.

Fishing rods laid against the sliding glass doors leading out to what she assumed was a deck or patio. Currently, they only led to the pitch darkness outside. "You any good at fishing?" She broke the silence after a few minutes.

"I've been known to catch a few." She could tell from his proud smile that he was being modest. "You ever been?"

"No. I don't trust the water."

His laughter was unexpected since she hadn't meant it as a joke and she began to laugh too. He turned to her and crowded his brow with curiosity. "What does that mean?"

"That I don't trust the water." She doubled down with a smile. "I don't float. I don't fish. I don't swim," she listed. "Andre could swim though. He loved the water. He used to beg me to get in at the beach or the pool... I never went in past my knees." She waved her hands in front of her decisively as though she could literally shoo away the thought of being in water.

"Pathetic," Rick teased. "Don't forget, there's a pool out back..."

"And?" Michonne said with attitude and suspicion.

"I could teach you how to swim... after we eat. I'm a good teacher... taught Maggie when she was little and my kids..."

"I thought you shouldn't swim after you eat... and... wait a minute," she realized, "it's November! That's a little too Caucasian for my black behind."

Rick laughed harder. "I know it's November. I can heat the pool. I use it all year round. Look." He walked over to a row of switches on the wall. She reluctantly followed him to the sliding glass doors. He lifted three switches at once and then one other.

The area beyond his small patio lit up from in-ground lights framing a rather large pool. She could hear the mechanical hum as the cover was pulled back slowly and the clear blue water moved faintly underneath.

"That's nice," she admitted. "But you would have to heat the pool... and all the air around the pool." She shivered just thinking about being wet out there. "And then drain the pool... then I might get in."

He was turning red, laughing at her responses. "I swear. You won't be cold. My Superman complex would never allow it."

"Rick, _you_ won't be cold. White folks don't get cold, I get it," she said in a very serious tone. "But I will go out there and get all the pneumonias!" Michonne playfully fussed sounding like the old ladies she'd known growing up in church. She laughed at her own phrasing as much as he did. "Therefore, not going swimming in November. Not I!" She shook her head vigorously.

He felt a surge of excitement every time she laughed. He never forgot the fact that she was in the middle of the worst storm in her life. But the warmth and light in her giggles felt like a day full of only sun. Her personality was quiet, but buoyant. She was approachable but somehow he still felt like he was playing out of his league. Even through her innocent demeanor, she had a sexiness that made his eyes heavy when he looked at her.

"Okay. Here's how it's gonna be." He started walking back to the stove, leaving her peering out the glass. "We're gonna eat. If you like the gumbo like I said you would, you can trust me _and_ my water and we're going swimmin'. End of discussion." He shrugged at her protests.

Michonne was laughing hard now. "You have lost your fucking mind." She caught herself and put her hand over her guilty mouth. "See, you've got me cussing and everything."

"You don't cuss?" He seemed surprised, then nodded, "You know what? Makes sense. I guess Sasha swears enough for both of you." Rick gave an exhausted sigh just thinking about the things he'd heard Sasha say. "There prob'ly ain't no bad words left for you to use."

She had to nod in agreement. Sasha would always have to be reprimanded in Michonne's house for her foul mouth. Rick, though, thought it was cute that a grown woman consciously tried not to swear. "So, why don't you cuss Miss Goody Two-shoes?"

She clarified, "I _try_ not to. It sets a bad example." The room tensed a bit as they both acknowledged who those efforts had been for, but Michonne shook it off. She didn't want to spend this night on anymore crying. It was too nice a night to waste in self-pity. She tried to find humor again. "But you'll probably hear a lot of potty mouth if you try to get me in any water."


	9. Chapter 9: Trust

**Trust**

"Food's almost ready... and then we're gonna do some cannonballs," Rick announced, grinning like an ill-behaved boy. He drew her over with a slight tilt of his head. "Bring those bowls."

Michonne obeyed. "Smells good," she complimented, a bit surprised. She looked at the contents of the stove and saw more than the gumbo. "What else you got here?

"Oh, it's just a little skillet cornbread. Carl ate all the rice for the gumbo. But I like it with cornbread better anyway. Ever had any?"

"No. Looks good, though."

The golden brown center surrounded by a dark brown circle of crunchiness made her mouth water. He filled their bowls with the reddish concoction of sausage, shrimp, okra and corn and instructed her to grab a root beer for him out of the fridge. She scolded him for having so much soda and then picked a 7Up from among his assortment for herself. They both settled next to each other in the middle of the kitchen, when Rick unexpectedly took her hand in his,

"I'll say grace."

Michonne's body seized in shock. She couldn't tell if he was asking her permission or telling her what he would do. She nodded and muttered out, "Oh... okay," but felt strangely unsure of his touch, for the first time since they'd met.

Michonne had tried to pray the night she raced to the hospital for Andre. She tried to pray when she made her way to the basement morgue and again when she sat in the room alone with his silent body. She had tried to pray yesterday as she slipped into the shadows of despair talking to Mike... she hadn't succeeded once.

"Lord," Rick began, "Thank you for another day. No life is perfect, but thank you for perfect moments. Thank you for this food and my present company. Please bless and keep Ms. Aug- Michonne." He squeezed her hand tighter at his mistake, bringing an unseen smile to her face bigger and brighter than the sun. "Thank you for my family and friends and for making the world with beautiful things." He squeezed her hand again, then let it go.

Michonne wasn't sure if he was done or if she should add to his prayer or simply say amen. She decided on a mumbled amen, cleared her throat nervously and waited for him to pick up his spoon. She followed his lead and, looking nowhere else but her bowl, she thanked him.

Aside from her hiatus from the house of the Lord, Michonne also realized, "I haven't heard an actual prayer in a long time. You very religious?"

"Not really... I don't know... Maggie..." he started, "My sister, Maggie says prayer is a stress-reliever." He turned to look at her with his fire-blue eyes. "Can I tell you somethin'?"

The somberness of his face was contagious. Michonne swallowed nervously and nodded.

"When I found out about my dau-... Judith... I was gonna go kill Phillip... and Lori too, maybe... I still hadn't decided on that. I really think I had lost my mind. I had gotten ready... all my affairs were in order. I let Carl spend the night with a friend. Wrote my son a letter that he's never seen. I was just about to leave my house with my gun..."

Michonne's brown eyes were fixed with an anxious stare. She was hanging on his every word. Rick paused to think of a way to explain that darkness in a way that wouldn't terrify the woman sitting raptly beside him, but somehow he knew she would understand. "I was just tired of life happenin' to me. I felt like… that was a way I could take control."

Michonne bit at her nail with narrowed eyes. "What happened?"

He scoffed with a bit of sadness and relief. "Maggie called me. It was the craziest thang. I ignored her call, but she kept callin'. She's persistent that way…" he joked timidly. "So, I finally answered. I was in my truck about to pull off in the middle of the night. She said she was worried about me and asked if she could pray for me. And she did right there over the phone."

He shook his head in gratitude. "She was thankin' God for me, for givin' her a brother she loved so much." Rick related that event in his life like it was something he'd read in a paper once. "Then I couldn't go through with it. I just couldn't. Prayer, it saved their lives. It saved my life that night."

"What did she say?"

"Who? Maggie? Never told her. Never told anyone." Rick picked up his spoon again. "I never went to church like you did growing up and I don't really ever go now... But I... prayer helps me. That's one trick I learned to get through all the bullshit."

"One trick?" She asked through her mouthful of delicious food, she restrained from saying how good it was, though, in hopes to avoid the pool in November.

"I got a lot of tricks... for alotta bullshit," he shook his head woefully. "Lotta bullshit calls for lotta tricks to keep me out of trouble."

"What else? I don't really have any tricks... please share." Ready to take notes, Michonne casually broke a piece of cornbread from her saucer and popped it into her mouth.

He grunted, swallowing quickly to respond, "Nah, you do. You do, or you'd be in a psych ward. We all have our tricks or we couldn't survive in this world."

"Rick, you just came to get me from the hospital because I had a nervous breakdown," she reminded him concisely. "I need some tricks... bad."

"Ok." He smiled devilishly. "The water..." He took a sip of his drink. "I swim."

Michonne looked as if she'd walked right into a trap. "Of course." She rolled her eyes. "Skip that one. What else?

He laughed again almost losing his food. "No, come on. I swear! It's therapy. I got up every mornin' and went to the gym to do a few laps before work, before I had the pool put in." He took another sip from his glass. "So how's your gumbo?" He elbowed her suggestively.

"It's delicious. I don't believe you cooked it. What's the recipe?"

"Oh, I cooked it." He nodded with a grin. "But I'm not gonna let you change the subject. You're gettin' in that water with me."

"I don't even have a bathing suit," She argued.

Before he could gauge the appropriateness of the comment, he re-filled his cheeks and joked, "Got your birthday suit, though." He looked up and saw her eyes stretched in shock.

Rick was the kind of man who's charm captivated most women. Maggie always told him his good looks never did him any favors. His best friend Shane pulled women all the time, but that was always Shane's objective.

Rick on the other hand could just stand in a place and before he knew what was happening some random woman would be giving him her number or asking him out. He'd gotten himself in some pretty awkward situations due to his unintentionally flirty manner.

He would say things that, as he played them back after the fact, came out wrong... or came out right, but at the wrong time. The latter was happening right now. "Sorry. Sorry. I know that crossed the line."

Michonne was attempting to recover from what he said. She couldn't speak yet as she really weighed the pros and cons of his little slip. "Wow," was all she said.

She could have said more to allay his concern but she decided to let him sweat. He was adorable. _You want him so bad and you're not living life._ She gave herself an honest evaluation, _You haven't been living life for years and it has nothing to do with what happened to Andre._

He stopped apologizing and waited for her to lay into him. He was sure it would be mild but final.

There was what seemed to be an eternity of silence between them during which, Michonne's mind was racing back and forth.

 _What are you gonna do, get married? You've never been anybody's fuck buddy. Who are you fooling? You know your heart ain't built for that._ She knew that was true about herself, but, _Maybe I could be that kind of girl now, I'm older now. No responsibilities, she made excuses. But what about him? How does he feel? What if he gets hurt? He doesn't deserve that._

He finally raised his eyes and saw her staring at him. He couldn't read her expression. Finally Michonne gracefully raised her brows and stood up as though she were about to impose sentencing.

 _It was fun while it lasted. You gotta thank God for beautiful thangs, even once they're over,_ he told himself. _But you fucked it up now. Now, she's ready to go._ He questioned his resolve, Y _ou gonna let her? You could just tell her how you feel._ But he accepted defeat, _Nah, you said enough. She's done._

Rick didn't want to hear her say it, so he said it first, in the most puppy dog tone. "Want me to take you home?"

She finally spoke.

"How long are we supposed to wait after we eat to get in the water?" She bit her bottom lip with an apprehensive smile.

Rick tried to find an answer to her question over the angels singing in his head. Consent falling from her tongue made his body sway like a drunk man. He couldn't look at her face anymore without blushing as he now registered the look she was giving him as a yes. He dropped his eyes and answered, "That's really an old wives tale. We don't have to wait. I turned on the pool heater when I flipped the lights. Should be just right by now."

Michonne was having second thoughts about the water but not one reservation about him. She heard her heart, her mind, her body... all of it said the same thing,

 _Rick Grimes will take care of you._

She had been a strong, patient and self-sacrificing caregiver for so long. This is what she wanted since shrimp lo mein. Honestly, this is what she wanted since she saw the flash in his eyes the night he got those stitches. She wanted Rick Grimes to take care of her.

She kicked off her flats, "Can you help he get into my birthday suit?"

He swallowed again, hard. "Are you sure?"

"You've been trying to get me wet since we got here, Rick. I trust you." Michonne raised her arms, wrist over wrist, above her head. She was pushing herself to be bold but the underlying unfamiliarity of it all made her tremble.

Her trembling made Rick hesitate but hearing that she trusted him, made him realize that was really what he wanted from her. Her trust. It was a hell of a drug.

He felt compelled to make a promise as he rose from his seat. "I would never do anythang to hurt you, Michonne." Resolute, he clenched a fist. "I wouldn't let anythang hurt you again."

"I know you wouldn't, Rick. I know."

Her eyes would not break from his heavenly blue gaze as she waited for him to move. He swept his lips with his tongue wanting to taste her, but she had only given permission to undress her. He almost asked if he could, but he thought better of it, having put his foot in his mouth enough with this woman.

He pinched the hem of her shirt with both hands and tugged it up over her head in one motion. Winnie the Pooh disappeared, revealing a simple black bra against her cocoa brown skin. With her shirt gone, he couldn't decide what to uncover next- her breasts or her backside..

"Keep going." She whispered encouragement and he chose to go for her pants. Her jeans only budging when she helped him out with a wiggle of her hips. Their faint laughter danced between them and sent chills over Michonne's nearly naked form.

The smile on Rick's lips faded as he reverently smoothed his hands over her butt and down her thighs, dragging the tight denim from her zebra print panties and ebony frame. Now crouched in front of her, she looked down into his eyes and saw his pupils dilate as she steadied herself on his shoulders and stepped out of the heap beneath her.

Rick stood up again, gliding his hands up over her toned legs and behind. His hands lingered on her hips. Her hands clutched at his shirt more forcefully than she meant to. He went for the clasps of her bra, but she stopped him.

"Wait," she said, her nerves knotting in her stomach.

 _She's changin' her mind._ Rick felt his stomach flip and his heart crush against the wall of his chest. "That's okay," he told her, not wanting her to feel pressured.

Michonne just smiled and started to undo the buttons on his shirt. Rick came back to life, realizing she was still on board. He let go of her bra and placed his large palms on her ribs, stroking her with his thumbs.

She could feel his heart pounding like bass as she manipulated the buttons on his chest, exposing his white t-shirt. He could feel it too as he pulled the long-sleeved garment over his head and dropped it to the floor. It was making him light-headed. He could no longer hear his inner dialogue.

"I'm nervous," he confessed out loud.

Michonne had similar feelings. "Me too," she said quietly. She tried to repeat her earlier instructions, "Maybe it would help if you called me Micho-"

"Michonne."

He immediately, leaned closer to her face and whispered like she had pushed a button.

"... and kiss me." She commanded him, grabbing the neck of his t-shirt tightly.

Immediately, his lips were on hers, so hungry and so wildly, he recognized his nervousness drift off him like sand in a sandstorm. She raised herself to her toes and met his passion, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her heavy breasts against his strong chest. Their tongues were let loose, sliding back and forth over each other, lips smacking, teeth grabbing. He broke their kiss, nuzzling his nose across her cheeks and whispered in her ear. "What if we don't get in the pool yet? I wanna show you somethin' first."

"What is it?" She traded him a curious grin for another kiss as she spoke into his mouth.

"I…" He averted his eyes for a moment of composure and they landed on the fridge. He saw the pictures on the appliance door fade from Judith's last school picture to a picture his mind invented. A picture of Michonne smiling, with her eyes closed while she laid against his chest surrounded by a garden of green. "I wanna… I wanna show you how I feel about you." He returned to her haunting chestnut eyes.

"Keep going," she allowed, as she stroked her hands through the curls at his neck.

He lifted her off her feet. Her legs wrapped around his waist. With her forehead resting against his, he carried her to his bedroom.

"Michonne?" He said her name again, understanding now how it affected her. "How far can I go with you right now?" He asked her as he laid her in the middle of his California king in the dark. He needed to know if they were just going to kiss and touch each other, That would be more than he expected tonight, but he needed to know how to proceed.

She looked up at the skylight over the bed and saw that the clouds had cleared. She saw galaxies beckoning her up into space. She grabbed his face with her hand, feeling the soft whiskers that surrounded his lips. She'd been dying to touch them. She lifted his face upward to the skylight.

Reluctantly, he pulled his eyes away from her face in the pale blue glow of the moon and looked up into the sky. "Take me there," she breathed, "any way you want to get me there. I trust you, Rick." He leaned in hungrily and continued to taste her through a passionate kiss. She felt him hard against her and her wetness saturated her panties and slicked her thighs from that manifestation of power alone.

She kicked herself when she remembered, "Oh... I uhh," she didn't want to break this momentum but she had to. She was being foolish enough as it was. "I haven't really been on top of taking my pill... there wasn't really any reason to," she informed him.

"Don't worry about it." He spoke in a whisper and reached over to his nightstand drawer. He placed the condom in her hand with a smile and another savage kiss. "Whenever you're ready."

He left everything literally in her hands. Michonne felt the extra large square package in her hand and her body quaked with anticipation all the more. He pulled away from her body and yanked at her underwear, quick to get them off, like they were hurting her somehow.

She was busy coming out of her bra, eager for him to touch her breasts. His discarded shirt landed on top of his jeans and boots and he landed on top of her, in the humidity of her thighs.

His hands cupped the side of her breasts bringing them up around his face. He inhaled her scent madly and began lapping at the valley between them. Michonne was whimpering already and he hadn't even done anything to her yet.

"You okay," he asked, coming back up to her face to check on her.

"Yes," she answered, her voice breaking.

"No, you're not. What's wrong?" He made her look at him. "If you want to stop. It's okay."

"I don't want to stop. I trust you." She moaned through a shiver. "I want this."

He traced her cheeks, capturing her tears. "But you're crying."

As much as Rick wanted this, he couldn't go through with it if it made her uneasy. Being so close to her, on top of her, his body was still raring to go. But his mind was now preoccupied with deciphering her thoughts and feelings in this moment.

"Would you believe me..." she sniffled and more fat teardrops fell, "...if I said I'm happy?"

"Yeah, Michonne. I'd believe you." He promised her with a reassuring kiss to her forehead. He slipped his arm under her neck, his other curled around her waist and he hugged her like he wanted to the day he met her beside the horror of her son's lifeless body.

"But, I don't believe it," she sobbed. "How can I be happy now?"

Michonne felt the guilt crushing her. Her one and only son was dead. She was set to bury him soon. But she was happy with Rick. It felt wrong. It felt right. She was happy. She was sad. She was sure. She was confused. She was anxious and at peace.

"You can be happy now because you deserve to be." He stopped all his advances, speaking sincerely. But she shook her head, disagreeing. That she couldn't believe what he was saying broke his heart. "You deserve it, Michonne. You hear me?" His eyes darted around her face, he saw the beginnings of a smile arresting the hurt there.

She truly trusted him and she was trying to believe it. "Sometimes bad things turn out good. Life hurts like hell sometimes but we can come back from it." He promised her on the verge of tears himself, his emotions made it hard for him to breathe. "Dammit, Michonne. You're gonna come back from this."

"Okay," she conceded. "Yeah, you're right. I am." She nodded, feeling like she was in a new world. "I'm going to come back from this. Right now," she said with determination as she tore open the condom wrapper with her teeth. "I trust you, Rick. You'll help me?"

"Oh, Michonne." Rick groaned as she took his manhood in her shaky hands. He nodded his head, inspired. "Yeah. Yes, Michonne. I'll help you..." He raised himself a little, giving her room to sheath the titanic erection between them. She quickly rolled it into place and he pressed into her without hesitation, now on a mission.

"Rick," she gasped, pulling him even closer. "I need you."

"I'll help you..." he began a chant. "I'll help you... I'll help you..."

Sliding into her silky folds with a delectably agonizing momentum, he had a twinge of regret. This was not what he had in mind. It wasn't how he saw this happening between them. He had fantasized about tasting her creamy center first and staying there until she begged him to stop, but he found that this was better than just the physical feeling that he had anticipated.

"You can come back, Michonne," he whispered as her body slowly swallowed him whole.

He felt her entire soul- he had no doubt it was her entire soul- holding him tight in her depths. "You're so beautiful." He said barely able to see her ebony face in the gloom of the room. It made the sensation of touching her, following her curves hidden in the dark, that much more haunting and real. "You're so beautiful," he repeated, and it was her soul- her entire soul- he saw when he said it.

She began to grind against him and he delved further inside her, creating a shrill of a moan on her lips. A sound so foreign to her ears she barely recognized herself. She couldn't help it.

She had a mind to do all the things she'd always been too timid to do with anyone else. Things she'd never desired before paraded through her head, loud and steady, like a marching band. Her hands roamed over the plane of his smooth solid chest, drifting to his strong sturdy arms and across the slopes and summits of his muscled back.

He couldn't believe how good she felt as he buried himself so, so deep. Michonne's breathing paused and then she released that quivering breath with his name, "Rick, where are you?" She wondered aloud at the blissful ache he was producing through every nerve in her gushing canal.

It had been so long since she had sex with anyone and this experience was unlike any other she'd ever felt. He had her walls so taut that she felt every vein on every inch of him. She moved timidly, realizing his size would be a feat to handle and that maybe she'd need to pace herself with all the things she wanted to do.

She cried out when he finally thrust in earnest, her chest rising and falling in dramatic waves. She could feel his hands all over her, like he had more than two. She moaned, loudly. She couldn't keep quiet. She was trying to, but she couldn't.

Rick was pleased and he let her know it. "Yeah. Let me hear you sing, beautiful. Tell me." He wanted her even louder, "Tell me..." She was gasping frantically. "Ahhhh, Michonne." He shuddered and kissed her like he was bringing the gospel to a new land, a calling he believed in with all his heart.

Quickly, Michonne felt her release building. "I'm close, Rick. Fuck!"

She was not ready for it to be over, but he was right there on some spot, in some chamber of her body that she never knew was there and each time he rocked into her she tightened and screamed his name. He was on the cusp as well, crushing his eyes closed, trying to hold on. He slowed his pace but that didn't help. The softer motion only made them feel a devastating yearning and amplified every move. It was inescapable. It was almost over.

"Shit! Michonne. I love you, fuck!" Rick couldn't say where that came from or how it made its way out of his mouth onto her neck.

 _Fuck it_ , he pardoned his slip, _I want her to know it._

He hoped he wouldn't regret it. But that's what he was feeling and not from the sex. That's what he was feeling in and out of her presence.

He wasn't a foolhardy man. Yes. He loved her. He was sure. It made perfect sense when he measured her against anyone else. He was astonished by her. He didn't think such brave sweetness still existed in the world.

He knew women like Sasha, who paired anger with courage and couldn't separate the two. He knew women like Lori, with an artificial sweetness and a backbone made of sewing thread. Women like Andrea, who did good things for the world, but couldn't do right when it came to people.

Michonne caught her breath through the ecstasy of his hard swollen tip making new emotions wash over her, but before she could say it back she was thrown into a fit of jerking compression. She felt Rick follow her, growing impossibly harder as he chased the quiver of her ravished center. He couldn't pull out of her just yet, spurts of pleasure still pouring forth. He just stayed there, still hard as a rock, thrusting lazily.

He felt like an atomic bomb had gone off in his head, evaporating all the what ifs he'd been using to keep himself at a safe distance from her. He chuckled to himself through a shudder that no boundary he'd set for himself had worked. He had tricks to get through anything else, but there was no weapon formed to fight the magnetic pull she had on him.

Her entire body was buzzing. Her ears popped. Her throat was parched. Her heavy quick breaths impeded anything she might have said. She swallowed to lubricate her voice, eager to speak.

"I love you, too. I do."

When she said it she heard the sound of her son's shrill laughter. The sputtering joy he'd belt out when she tickled him. In her happiness, she remembered her baby in happier times. She could smell the bubbles from his bath and the musk of his sweaty socks after a long day at the playground.

Rick pulled her in his arms and she sank into his side. He steadily smoothed her locs back with his hand. He didn't know it, but that was exactly what Andre used to do whenever she showed him pity and let him crawl into her bed after a bad dream.

Once, after a bedtime story about stars, her son had asked her what it would be like to fly to the moon and spacewalk. Now, she couldn't help but look up through the skylight above her, safe in Rick's arms and think maybe Andre was finding out all the answers to all the questions his little inquisitive mind could hatch and a feeling of calm settled into her bones.

When Rick finally moved to get up, she realized how quickly it was over and she hoped he felt as good as she did. "Was it okay?"

"What? If it gets any better than this..." he just shook his head as the words were unavailable to explain what he was feeling. Taken aback, he leaned into her kiss-swollen lips again. He just spoke in the most simple terms, "Michonne, you are absolutely perfect."


	10. Chapter 10: Sink Or Swim

**Sink Or Swim**

Rick had awakened exhilarated, despite getting hardly any sleep last night. He had found the fountain of youth and chugged down a pitcher-full. No different from any other morning since he'd met her, the single thought on his mind when he opened his eyes was Michonne August.

But this morning, different from any other in his life, he turned his head on his pillow and saw the jungle of dark thick locs covering the white bedding that surrounded two bodies living two lives as dissimilar as the skin that held their souls.

The sight of her bare back curved under his arm made him war with himself. Part of him wanted to see her eyes again and figure out the Grand Canyon colors there. Another part of him, however, couldn't bear to wake her knowing how difficult it must be for her to sleep so soundly after so much emotional trauma.

He crept out from the covers and padded out of the room. Soon he was submerged in silence, warm and relaxing, as he commenced cutting through the water for his morning laps. His mind was racing, full of plans for today, the events of last night and hopes for tomorrow.

He wished he could talk to Shane about everything that was happening and that's when unwelcomed realities started splintering through his mind. He had texted his best friend and called Dixon the night Michonne asked to have a sit down with them. Dixon had been drunk and incoherent, but Shane never responded.

That was not so unusual. It was completely Shane's thing to drop his best lines on the prettiest girl at some bar and be unreachable all night or all day, but he never dropped off the planet for days. He never left Rick's texts unanswered for so long.

If Shane didn't want to be bothered, Rick decided he would leave him alone until he was himself again. He knew from experience that might take a long time. Even longer for someone like Shane who always teased Rick for being too sensitive, only to hide how much of a bleeding heart he was himself. Where Rick was a romantic, brave enough to wear his heart on his sleeve, Shane kept women at a distance because he feared being hurt more than anything.

Now, Rick wondered how he could keep his best friend and also keep Michonne when life had connected them by the most painful barbed wire thread. It didn't seem likely they'd ever spend Thanksgivings laughing around the table.

Maybe Michonne would see he was a good guy once she met him face to face. But who knows if Shane could ever manage such a meeting. A man afraid of heartbreak would hardly be able to endure looking the mother of the kid he killed in the eye, even if it was an accident.

Rick's muscles burned with every stroke under the rippling pool. He came up for air only when he absolutely positively could not hold his breath a second longer. But even with his eyes crushed tight, he could not block out the mental image of the hateful looks that Sasha had given him. The hollow echos below the surface of the water, could not drown out the animus in her voice when she said,

 _"You should have your muthafuckin' badge taken away for trying to manipulate her when she's vulnerable like this and not even fuckin' thinking straight."_

At the time it had rolled off his back. But now he was experiencing a change, like shifting tectonic plates or the rotation of a planet's darkened hemisphere toward the sun. Now that he'd been intimate with Michonne, Rick felt so much more protective of her, even if it meant protecting her from himself.

It wasn't a question of whether he loved her, but was Sasha right? If Michonne wasn't thinking straight what would happen to her when she snapped out of it? Would she look back on their time together and feel the guilt she expressed last night? Would she resent him? He could hear his mother's sweet southern inflection,

 _"You're a beautiful boy Rick, inside and out. But sometimes beauty turns a heart ugly. You have a power over girls and when you get older, you'll have a power over women just the same. Your daddy has it too. But he never abused that power. I hope you'll be like him, son. I'm glad that you're a man who loves but you gotta be a man who loves nobly, too."_

She'd told him that when he was 17. Ella Grimes had found out that her son had two girlfriends that summer and she warned him with her special brand of sweetness. That night Rick decided two things, that Lori Andrews was the one for him and that he would never be in a situation like that again. He had to do more than love, he had to love nobly. And if Michonne wasn't ready for this and he selfishly stoked those fires, he was exactly what Sasha said he was and who his mama feared he'd be.

 _"Hell, I'm your sister, Rick. I can't say no to you, imagine what that does to a girl like Jessie."_

Maggie's voice now came for him even though he was sure this self-analysis had made the point in his mind. But it couldn't really be a true kick in the pants without the voice of his baby sister who was always wise beyond her years, prompting him to do the right thing.

Thanks to his sister, he'd done the right thing in the past. Jessie was merely a clone of Lori as Maggie had pointed out. "Why do all that over again, only this time with a blonde?" she'd asked him. He nipped that in the bud quicker than a flicker.

The most recent woman in his life was certainly not the type to be ignored. This phrenic stroll down memory lane would be no exception. The professional go-getter joined the cacophony of women in his head.

 _"I didn't expect to feel this way about you, Rick. And it's not just that big cock of yours that has me stuck like a cat in a tree."_

When Andrea Mitchell started pursuing him, before he even broke up with Jessie, it was really just for them both to get their rocks off. They were both coming out of failed marriages and he was finally starting to come out of the Lori-haze. He behaved like a man with sexual needs. Andrea was happy to scratch that itch. He never lost his heart but he'd found his dick, as Shane liked to say.

Maggie was pleased to see him entertaining a woman who was strong willed and independent. How Andrea fell in love with him, he'll never know. Andrea doesn't even know. But when she told him she slept with her ex-husband on a trip out of state to settle some of their joint-owned property issues, Rick was done.

The scar tissue from Lori was inflamed and he saw he wasn't as forgiving a guy as he thought he was... or maybe he just didn't feel as strongly about Andrea as he should have. At any rate, it was nothing like what he was feeling for Michonne. He could see that clear as day now. Falling for Michonne was as simple and quick as flipping a switch and with the light shining, he saw how every woman paled in comparison.

He finally came to rest at the edge of the pool. He had a view of her sleeping in his bed through the large double-paned sliding glass of his room. He had a lot to think about. So he did, floating as the water sloshed about him, looking at the curvy form in white sheets so peaceful and still.

…

Michonne turned over in his bed.

The skylight overhead brought a new morning glowing over her features. Looking up at the scape above her, she saw a beautiful night had become a beautiful day and she was ready to give her senses over to him all over again. Rick could have been making love to her in a chicken coop and she wouldn't have known until now. In the light of day she could better see the lair of love that she spent the night in.

The umber-colored cedar headboard rose above her stopping on a straight edge giving way to the backdrop of the gray stack-stone accent wall. The ceiling and floors were honey-colored timber and the floor to ceiling window wall was framed in the same rich wood. A plush heather-gray comforter bunched at the edge of the bed under the soles of her feet and she was covered in a white flannel sheet that was cozy and warm.

They had just gone to sleep, it seemed, after the most addicting sex turned into declarations that time would consider premature, but their hearts recognized as legitimate feelings. As far as Rick was concerned that was good enough and Michonne was inclined to agree.

Being intimate with Rick was beyond everything.

The second time he had her, he got his taste. He called it a taste. Michonne would have called it a crime if she could have gotten her mouth to work on that one syllable word with the same efficiency Rick worked his mouth on her.

It was enough to last her the rest of her life, the way he introduced the sweep and smack to her center. The way he nursed her ringing bell with his soft wet lips and then boxed it like a heavyweight's speed bag had her frenzied and mewling. His moaning delight and the way his eyes powered on in the dark when she dared to raise her head made crippling currents cruise the length of her spine.

The second time he rolled a second skin over his heavy girth, he decided to flip her over and watch the slow roll of her hips as her eyes rolled back and found stars in the top of her head. All she could do was take it and say whatever her heart compelled her to.

She had her own personal experiences and the descriptions in books, movies and songs about sex born from love. But nothing could have prepared her for what she felt last night, not even her own imagination, though, since she had met him, it had been working overtime. She did not believe in the feelings she was having, yet, here they were like beautiful bright graffiti spray painted all over her mind.

Wrapped in the soft sheet, she pulled herself to the edge of the mattress and placed her feet on the light tuft of the beige area rug beneath her. It didn't take long for her to find him. She met his eyes staring at her through the sliding doors in his bedroom overlooking the other end of the patio. He was in the pool relaxing, resting his chin on his arms folded over the edge. Steam rose off his nicely cut shoulders into the frigid air.

He was apparently watching her sleep through the glass and his face lit up when he saw that she was awake. But Michonne was not fooled by his peaceful smile, she could feel the precious ache he left between her legs as she approached the large window. She pulled it open just a touch, peeking out into winter.

"Hi," she greeted him as she threw a handful of her locs over her shoulder. "I see you're swimming in November." She made it sound like the most absurd activity known to man.

"Yup, I am. You comin' in?"

"Nope." She gave him the facts, "The only reason I even thought of doing it last night was to get naked with you." She reveled in Rick's blushing smile and continued with a shrug, "I have no incentive now."

The sound of breaking, splashing water as he straightened his arms and rose out of the pool, slick and wet, hitched her breath. What affect swimming had on his peace of mind, she couldn't know for sure, but the physical benefits were hard to miss. His wide lean chest followed by his molded abs and the print of his substantial hang, in swimming trunks that clung to his body, was a sight that she could watch in an uninterrupted loop.

She could see that the sight of her was sparking his arousal and as he got near the door she instinctively backed up just a little from his imposing form. He passed the towels on the patio table sitting poolside and pulling the door wide open, he entered the room where she stood, dripping water all over the floor.

Michonne gasped, "Rick! You're making a puddle!"

He didn't say anything in reply. He just scooped her up into his arms, bed sheet and all, and took her struggling and begging to the water outside.

"If you throw me in this water..." She began to threaten him as she gripped his neck with all her might fully expecting to be gasping for air in the next second. There was nothing to threaten him with, however, so she abandoned that tactic and commenced pleading desperately.

"Hey, hey, hey..." He calmed her. "Do you really think I would just throw you in?"

"I don't know. Some people think that's funny."

"I wouldn't do that to you, Michonne," he promised with a meaningful tone.

"Well, take me back in. It's cold!"

"Nah, you are comin' in the water." He clarified, "I'm gonna carry you in and keep you right here with me til you feel comfortable enough for me to let you go."

Michonne didn't protest anymore, though she was shivering from nervousness now more than the cold. But she was certain Rick was going to keep her safe.

He walked the length of the pool til he came to the stairs and step by step descended down into the warm clear water with Michonne clutching him like a life preserver. He chuckled at her dramatic energy. "You act like I'm takin' you to the middle of the ocean," he joked.

She gave him a disconnected chuckle. "I'm scared." She held him tighter and pressed her face into his neck. But as she said the words she felt the water's pleasing temperature and lessened her grip a little.

"See? Doesn't that feel good?" He prodded her, "C'mon. Stand up and come with me." Rick pulled the sheet away, leaving it floating on the surface, heavy with water. He led her naked body to a depth in the pool that covered her shoulders and she wrapped her arms around his neck again, mistrustful of the weightless feeling around her.

Michonne gave a distressing moan, "I don't like this. I feel like I'm falling." She said as she tightened her arms again and tried to wrap her legs around him too.

"That's because you're not controllin' the water, the water is controllin' you." He spread his arms out to his side, waving them to and fro under the languid movements of the sloshing curls of water. "Look. Do like this," he instructed her to copy his motion. He moved his hands to her tiny waist while she put her feet back on the floor of the pool and pushed and pulled the water with her outstretched arms. "Feel a little better?" He applied a kiss to her lips, lips that he had been dreaming about kissing for days, lips that he had decided never to stop kissing, ever.

She exhaled with a tremor, "Umm... I guess. But," she ventured apologetically not wanting to disappoint him, "I don't think you're gonna be able to teach me how to swim today. Sorry."

Rick put his forehead to hers and brought her arms back comfortably around his body. "You know, it literally kills me to hear you ask forgiveness?"

She ignored his aversion to her apologies and smiled lightly against his chest, "Maybe in the summer you can teach me."

Hearing plans for the future, even for something as benign as swimming lessons, made Rick's face shine over her head relentlessly. "By the summer you'll already be doin' laps with me... but you're off the hook today. I'll be satisfied with this."

The utter satisfaction he found just quietly holding her- knowing that she was really there, wanting him- was enough to make all the bullshit with Lori, Andrea, Merle, the press, recede into background noise.

She was all he could hear. All the ways she moaned against him last night, her humming along with the radio, the way she breathed so softly in her sleep, her giggles at his singing last night, her voice breaking as she told him about big pieces that made up the picture of her life- he was hopeful that these things would be the soundtrack for the rest of his life.

"What time is it?" Michonne remembered the existence of time and space and knew that this paradise was not the norm for either of them. Where did he need to be? What should she be doing at the moment?"

"'Bout nine. Why? You gonna break my heart and leave?"

"No. But things must be crazy for you at work. Don't you have more important things to do?" Michonne subtly reminded him, in hopes that if she brought it up, it would hurt less when he said yes. Mike always had other things to do. There was no way the sheriff of an entire town had time to coddle her more than he already had, which was a lot.

"More important than you? No. The first thang I did when I woke up was got someone to cover for me," Michonne's smile was like a stalker lingering constantly at her lips until Rick added, "but I do have somethin' to do today."

"Well, you can take me home whenever," she allowed unable to make eye-contact. She looked past him at the sheet floating on the surface of the water. Her understanding voice was trying so hard to hide her disappointment.

Rick raised her chin so he could look in her eyes, read her and so she could see his sincerity. "Whenever could never come, if you leave it up to me. So don't tempt me."

…

An hour later, Rick was on his second attempt to make breakfast. The smitten pair became distracted the first time and ended up panting through round three with Michonne sandwiched between Rick's body and the kitchen sink. One leg thrown over his arm, the other balanced on the tips of her toes as he thrusted inside her until she abandoned her 'no-cursing' rule and made him blush with her unladylike words.

Michonne was in Rick's shower and he was at the stove, stirring a pot of grits, when he heard his doorbell ring followed by immediate and insistent knocking. His bare chest disappeared inside a navy hoodie from the hanging coat rack in his foyer.

"Rick," Andrea greeted him cautiously when he opened the door.

"What're you doin' here, Andrea?"

"Can I come in? It's freezing out here." She moved forward to enter but Rick didn't move an inch.

"No. Andrea." He held the door tight. "I, uh, actually have company."

The unwelcome visitor turned to look at his driveway where only her car and his truck were parked. "Yeah, right," she scoffed. "Who is it? Some skanky one night stand you picked up at Pard's. We both know that's not you, Rick. Look just let me in. I swear I won't get grabby." Her eyes skimmed his crotch in his white basketball shorts.

"Look, Andrea, I'm in the middle of breakfast…"

"With your mysterious company? Good thing I got you to decorate, if you're gonna be bringing random women home, huh?" Andrea stood on her tiptoes trying to peek inside over Rick's shoulder. Her tone was mocking and she couldn't help but laugh. However, her attitude changed when she looked back at him and saw his face set to stone. Realization crushed her and her heart dropped to the sound of air leaving her body by what felt like a kick in the chest. She whispered, "Oh my God. Maggie told me, but I didn't believe her. Is Michonne August in there right now?"

Rick didn't answer her question. "Andrea… I'm busy. It's not okay, you just stoppin' by like this. If you have business to discuss you can email me, otherwise…"

"Okay, Rick. Listen to me very carefully," she interrupted in a grave tone. "This is a really bad idea. A relationship with Ms. August is not going to work out for you or her. I know I messed up and I accept that you need time to get over it, but what you're doing right now is crazy. I'm worried about you, your career…"

"I don't need any career advice from..."

"Next year you'll be up for re-election. After this shooting, you can forget about the black vote around here. And do you really think the good ol' boys of KC will support one half of an interracial couple? I mean, it's like you fell for the blackest black woman you could… with the hair and everything…"

Rick stood confused. All the years he'd known Andrea, he knew her to be blunt and unapologetic with her words. But she always used those traits to combat the same kind of bigoted viewpoints she just leaked. "Hell's that s'posed to mean?" He squinted his eyes as if adjusting his focus might reveal a totally different person stood in front of him. "And I don't care what…"

"But you care about Carl. You're his hero, Rick! How do you think a smear campaign will affect him? What about Maggie? She said you were at the hospital yesterday with heart eyes, hovering over that woman while she was in the midst of a psychotic break! You really think she's in any condition to fall in love?" She scoffed, "Her son isn't even in the ground yet!"

Andrea was getting louder with her arguments and Rick glanced behind him to make sure Michonne was nowhere around to hear her. That's when he met her stunned brown eyes. She was standing behind him, in one of his henleys and in shock, holding a grits-covered spoon. She couldn't see who was on the other side of the door. She couldn't see much with the tears blurring her eyes.

At first Rick was only irritated, now he was fuming. "Leave." He slammed the door in Andrea's face without a moment's pause and rushed to Michonne. Smoothing his hands down her shoulders and arms, he tried to minimize what she'd just heard.

"Hey, that's…" he waved the whole conversation off behind his back, "that's… don't pay any attention to that. Hey, look at me. Let's finish up breakfast and eat." He led her back down the hall to the kitchen and Michonne silently followed.

He sat her down and served her, but she barely acknowledged the food. Rick would not give up. He brought his food over and sat beside her. He joked about their playful debate from earlier that morning on the proper way to eat grits. "Try'em like this first. If you don't like 'em, I'll get the sugar for you and let you eat outside."

To Michonne it was jarring how fast everything about last night seemed tainted. The lightness she had been enjoying in Rick's house was over. She knew the closed door down the hall from his master bedroom belonged to his son. The bumper stickers plastered on the door's facade were a dead giveaway. Even if she could deal with obstacles to their relationship like Rick seemed willing to, putting all of this on his son just didn't seem right to her.

"Maybe you should take me home, Rick," she said staring into her bowl.

He clenched his jaw and finally responded, "Will you at least eat?"

"It looks delicious, but I've lost my appetite. You've been really kind to me. You're a good person, Rick. I get why your friends show up to your house to stop you from making a big mistake with me. I don't know who that was, but they're right. I'm too messed up to give you anything right now."

"She's not right." Rick turned to her. His fingers reached for her but he kept his hands to himself, afraid she'd fall apart like a house of cards if he made the wrong move. "She's not right." He hung his head. "Last night you told me you love me. Now you feel diff'rent? Before that you told me you trusted me. Now you don't?"

Michonne stuttered, "No. I mean… I don't know. I was... caught up in the moment, I guess."

"C'mon. It wasn't a moment, Michonne. Not for me. I don't think it was just a moment for you either. Somethin' big is happenin' here and we can ignore it… I tried to for days. But I think we'll regret it if we do… more than we'll regret fightin' for this and seein' it through."

Rick had thought about this a lot. There were aspects of it all that she didn't know. "Y'know, one more block and Michael would have been out of my jurisdiction. Thirty minutes before he got pulled over, Officer's Peletier and Ford would have been in that cruiser."

"So what are you saying? What happened to Andre was… meant to be?" She spit the words with a bitter sarcasm, "All part of God's plan?"

Those words twisted like a knife in his gut. "No. Not meant to be. If God is real then so's the Devil. People are always quick to blame tragedies on God. That's BS. Wasn't the hand of God that took your son. But... I don't know, Michonne, well… what if it's His plan to… to conquer the evil with the good? I read that once, that we can conquer the evil with the good. This is good. You know it is."

He reasoned with her through the lump in his throat. "Gotta be a reason why you can smile and laugh when you're with me despite the nightmare you're goin' through. Gotta be a reason why I can't get you out of my head despite everythang weighin' on me now. And I know it doesn't make sense. There's still a lot for us to learn about each other, but can you honestly look me in the eye and say you see a stranger?"

Michonne refused to look up. Her eyes stayed glued to the butter melting in her bowl, melting like her resolve to be level-headed as she listened to the conviction in his voice. It was the same conviction she knew she felt in her heart. But she was too scared to do this now.

She stood up from the seat beside him, doing everything she could not to look him in the eye. "I'm going to get my things. I'm sorry. This is too hard."

Rick watched her walk away. Her posture was so much like it was the night of the riot. She seemed sad, confused and as if nothing in her life was under her control.

 _She's running scared. Don't let her. She still trusts you. Just make her remember. She still trusts you. You're never gonna find this again with anybody else._

"Michonne." Rick followed her into his living room pulling her back to him.

Instantly, she crumbled into his chest, holding on tight and being held even tighter. Her legs gave out and she dropped to the floor, bringing Rick along with her to his knees.

She wept.

She wept for Andre's stolen greatness. She wept for the cap and gown he would never wear, the first love that he would never meet, the grandchildren he would never give her. She wept for the old Michonne who used to think the worst thing that could happen was crashing her car or losing her phone, or forgetting to send an email at work.

She wept for Rick and the feelings she had for him that could never survive in this world. And she wept for the world at large, where babies meet bullets. Where being a cop is synonymous with being a killer. Where loving a white man is synonymous with being a traitor. And loving a white cop is so ridiculous you can only cry in his arms before you say goodbye to him for good.

She shuddered trying to find the will to get up and go. Her arms braced against his chest in an attempt to move away from him. The razor thin distance between them was more than she could bear and she toppled back into the life-giving comfort of his embrace.

"I pushed it," he whispered sorrowfully into her hair. "I pushed it. I'm sorry. Maybe we should've waited longer…"

"Stop it." Michonne finally understood Rick's distaste for her remorse. She would not let him desecrate the miracle of their time together and speak of the love they'd made as if it were a crime. She sat up and threw her arms around his neck, reversing the role of consoler. "Don't be sorry. I wanted you like I've never wanted anything." She shook her head fully feeling the absoluteness of her "never". "But I know... hoping to keep this… _that_ is pushing it, Rick. I don't want to hurt you…"

"Then don't. Stay with me." He took hold of her face, challenging the remarkable pigment in her eyes. "Maybe we don't get what we want. But God's gotta give us what we need and I _need_ you, Michonne."

Always running from his intense sapphire stare, Michonne's eyes fell on an open, downturned book on his coffee table. With one passing glance, the title blossomed her heart with even more love for him- Sunshine After The Storm: A Survival Guide for the Grieving Mother. He had been educating himself on how to care for her, how to love her through this trauma and how to make her shine in shadow.

Michonne's dark lashes dropped against her cheeks dislodging the round teardrops she was trying to subdue. Their foreheads touched and Rick kissed the wet streaks signing her face. She wondered aloud, "How do you know?"

"Because I'd tear this world apart for you. Because even if you decide to leave me right now… if you tell me we just can't be together and make me take you home, I'll respect that and I'll always be a friend to you, if that's all you can give me. But I'd never let you go, Michonne."


	11. Chapter 11: The Brothers Dixon

**The Brothers Dixon**

"Call you back. Gotta flash the lights…"

Daryl snatched the phone from his ear and hurried to slide his thumb across the screen to end the call before Merle could finish his sentence. He was sitting at his desk with Sheriff Grimes standing right beside him. On his computer screen there was a picture of him and his brother that had somehow made its way from their mother's fireplace mantle:

A teenage Merle with a rare smile and a two-year old Daryl sitting high on his shoulders.

A sickening dread came over the younger Dixon as he looked up and saw his boss studying the photograph on the monitor. Daryl fumbled for his mouse and tried to hide the picture but the cursor on the screen was frozen.

To his horror, Rick lifted the same bullhorn from the night of the riot. "Guys, come check out Daryl and his big brother." The piercing pitch of feedback and static preceded an unnaturally thunderous volume that distorted Rick's voice. Daryl covered his ears and winced at the painful feeling of his brain vibrating against his skull. Soon his desk was surrounded by all his colleagues, everyone vying for a better view of the picture.

He pushed the escape button on his keyboard over and over but, by some demonic malfunction, that only served to zoom in on the picture until both Dixon faces filled the screen. Sweat started to bead at his crown, trickling down his temple. More people, enough for a riot, came pushing in to see the snapshot of brotherly affection. Daryl could see the crush of people deliberating with each other, but the ringing in his ears muted everything around him.

He spotted an angry face here and there in the crowd until the whole mob was shouting and screaming, not at him, but at Rick.

Daryl's hearing began normalizing when he looked at his desk and saw his cell lit up with a call from Merle. He reached for it frantically to decline the call but Rick got to it first. He answered it and his brother's voice came through the phone speaker with the same blaring force as though the call was being transmitted through the station's PA system,

"Call you back. Gotta flash the lights…"

"Yo! Backwoods, wake up," Rosita startled Daryl awake.

He shot up with a pounding heart, his uniform drench with sweat. His partner jumped as well, not expecting such dramatics from her usual graveyard shift gag. She always tried to scare him awake and usually, ever the even keel officer, Daryl would slowly open an eye without so much as a flinch. Her heart sank when she figured the events of the past week were weighing more heavily on him than she assumed.

"Sorry." Her facial expression changed completely. "You okay?" She noticed the sheen on his forehead and the trickle of perspiration that made its way along his thin sideburn.

The death of Andre August-Lancey was heavy on him to the point that he had to drag himself out of bed most days. He'd never seen the boy in the flesh… and never would. He never knew about his existence until it was over. Daryl had nothing to do with the boy's death but he had everything to do with his killer.

He pitied the boy's family. Michonne's eyes haunted him. Right before that trashcan came hurtling down on the Sheriff, Daryl was convinced she'd looked directly at him. Her brown eyes were like rusty pikes hammered into his heart. His stomach slithered inside him at the thought that maybe she could read him despite all the gear he wore and that maybe she hated him. Even if it was all in his mind, he couldn't think of a reason why she shouldn't.

After he scrambled into the squad car, unwittingly chasing her ambulance with his friend and mentor he was left shivering with panic and guilt for the rest of the day. When they got back to the precinct and he let Rick out at the front door, he could not stop his tears from falling. He struggled to see his way to a spot in the station's parking lot and ended up slumped over on the steering wheel, racked with sobs.

As heavy as that unexpected encounter was for him, tomorrow would be a heavier day than most for Daryl. Tomorrow marked one year since he became a full fledged deputy. Under Rick's guidance he was proud to say that he'd done a lot of good in penance for an unchangeable past mistake. A good, long run at holding his head high…

...only made it easier to see how low he was, no matter how he tried to hide his tattered emotions.

Rosita could see it but she struggled to understand it fully.

Officer Espinosa was not a selfish person. If anyone could sympathize with Ms. August it was Rosita. Her teenaged cousins were always treated like gang members even in their school uniforms. Her parents were undocumented and now, with the presidential promise of a wall and ICE agents with quotas, life this side of the border was scarier than ever. It wasn't out of the norm for her, an officer of the law, to be followed through stores by staff when she wore her big hoop earrings, dressed as a civilian.

Still, if she ever heard anyone vocalize the thoughts she was trying to tamp down lately, she'd call them privileged and indifferent. She felt terrible that, even though a child was dead, her main concern was how this whole tragedy was complicating her own life.

It had taken months, but she and Daryl had finally started to make a connection outside of their job. Actually, it had taken years. She first found herself attracted to his unkempt hair and melancholy in the corner of Abe Ford's livingroom when he came with his brother to poker night.

Their snarky flirtations were coming to a head and Rosita had planned to ask him over to her house the very night Merle pulled Mike over, but all hell broke loose and everything they had been building up to crumbled.

The way he blanked out when they sat patrol bothered her. After-shift burgers and shakes in the cruiser were awkward. He wouldn't debate with her like usual. But she figured he was still a little paranoid from all the nasty looks and language they received on the streets whenever they attempted to do the simplest act of policing. Now she could see it went deeper than that.

Actually, it wasn't the cop hate that bothered Daryl. It was the cop love. The bond he had with these unwavering heroes. The way they maintained their core values despite their flaws inspired him, Rick most of all. He tussled with whether it was possible to really love them and be their brother when he came with a brother that didn't deserve to wear their uniform anymore.

Daryl didn't always agree with everything his brother did and said, but he always stayed by his side. They were family and now they were all they had.

Mama Dixon was the last to go after diabetes cost her one leg and then the other. She didn't qualify for government sponsored healthcare because she owned the acres of cluttered overgrown land her lopsided country house sat on. Coming from a generation where having your own land was about being established and "American", it made no difference to Mama Dixon that her property was as useless as a sunny day in hell.

An annoying little brother, growing up so much younger than Merle, Daryl often felt like an only child. He was lonely and resentful of his mother's illness and of the fact that he was never old enough to do the things his big brother was able to do. To Daryl, Merle was the greatest: smart, strong, popular. While Merle was busy being the good son, protecting their town and helping their handicapped mother, Daryl was coming of age in the usual selfish way.

Now, Merle still felt like he was protecting their town. He was just all mixed up how to go about it. Once upon a time the big brother had grounded the confused, gullible kid. Oh, how the tables turn. With all the life Merle had lived he was now confused and gullible and Daryl was just beginning to come to grips with the fact that his brother could be gone for good.

The brother who taught him how to tie his shoes and shoot a gun. The brother, who quizzed him on state laws vs. county laws, patrol procedures and 10 codes when Daryl decided he wanted to do something with his life besides getting high with emo dropouts and bussing tables at the diner. His only brother, who had lost so much and was so easily misguided on how to get it back.

...

About six months before Merle Dixon saw Michael Lancey make a minor traffic violation, the summer was officially in play.

Rick, Carl and Judith were celebrating the end of school with ice cream cones at the playground.

Rosita was driving Daryl insane with her Camila Cabello impression, singing the song, Havana.

Sasha was organizing an outdoor luncheon for the caseload of families overseen by her division.

Tyreese was wearing a wet towel on his head, trying to finish grounds maintenance before he became a victim of heatstroke.

Andrea was waiting for Rick to respond to her text while ignoring Gregory's calls regarding the sell of their vacation home.

Mike was in his barber's chair giving an unsolicited shop talk lecture on the pros and cons of light skinned versus dark skinned women.

Michonne was bookmarking her page in the Ann Petry classic, 'The Street', to chase Andre and Terry through the backyard with a super soaker.

And Merle was picking up a few spices for his famous rib rub when a chance meeting outside a King County grocery store set off a chain of events that culminated with a five year old's death and the complete upheaval of numerous lives.

"That Six Second' Merle Dixon?" An unfamiliar voice called out an old familiar nickname.

Merle sat his bags down and turned around from the passenger side of his car and came face to face with the notorious asshole of his childhood. Merle gave the clean shaven man an obligatory smile. "Negan Jeffries," he said his name with a dose of well-deserved disgust.

"Goddamn, boy!" Negan slapped Merle on the shoulder. His wide, toothy grin and his deep set dimples made him more handsome than a jerk like him deserved to be. "Couldn't find your way outta KC, huh?"

Merle sucked a trail of air through the spaces of his teeth, bristling at Negan's condescending question. He answered with none of the lightheartedness that the denim clad man exuded. "Guess not. What the hell're you doin' back?"

The last time he'd seen Negan Jeffries was the night they graduated high school. He was on his proverbial high horse sermonizing to his loyal yesmen that he was too smart to waste anymore of his life in the hick town where they were raised. Merle could have happily gone through the rest of his life and never seen his face again. There was never any love lost between the two men since Merle's best friend was black and Negan was an unapologetic bigot who bragged about being related to John Wayne and the proud descendant of southern plantation owners.

"Sweating my nuts off in this heat," Negan complained. "Came to handle some business. See my momma. Turn out some country ass." He took his unlit cigar out of his mouth, spit on the black pavement of the parking lot and rocked on his heels, arrogant as ever. "Where's the good quality snatch 'round here nowadays?"

"I wouldn't know," Merle answered curtly and turned to make his way to the driver's side without further delay.

"Hey, come on, man. You ain't still sore about high school, are you? We're two grown men now… come up together in the same town. We can put that petty bullshit aside." Negan made light of their former squabbles. Before his acquaintance could object, he rubbed the roof of Merle's army green 1968 Charger and wolf whistled the polished lady-like curves, impressed. "This is some sweet ride! This all you?"

"Yeah." Merle relaxed a bit, sparked by the opportunity to talk about his prized project car. "It was my daddy's."

That conversation turned into a Negan sponsored trip to bury the hatchet at Pard's, the bar Merle frequented more often than not. A respite from the summer heat and to show his gratitude for Merle's work on the force, keeping county streets safe, they sat at the bar counter in the air conditioning catching up.

"So, you still married?"

It seemed like a lifetime ago, but Merle used to have a wife. He never felt like a married man, though, it being a shotgun wedding and all. Paula, the redhead he married, wouldn't have been his momma's 50th choice for a bride, let alone the first.

Her reputation had a lot to do with kneeling, but little to do with church. He wasn't the first guy she slipped up with, he was just the only guy too poor to give her money to "handle" her pregnancy efficiently.

He could still remember his father trembling in a rage when he found out Merle was going to be a father before he was old enough to vote. "Son, you're gonna marry that damned girl! You ain't gonna be like some deadbeat ass "Tyrone", makin' babies all over town, then forgettin' bout'em."

It was the talk of the little town and even moreso the juiciest gossip in school, a young man with a wife before he had a diploma.

"Ain't married." Merle answered without taking his eyes off the ballgame playing on the flatscreen over the bar.

Negan almost spit in laughter and teased, wiggling his brow. "That 'cos you and Morgan Jones, finally run away together?" He didn't notice Merle tensing his jaw unable to laugh. "He still live 'round here?"

Merle hadn't been to the Jones' house in forever. Ironically, that was where he spent all his time growing up. And while the Dixon boy was welcome there, his friendship with Morgan had to be quietly kept from Mr. Dixon.

It was a thing Merle never understood. His father and exchanged pleasantries whenever their paths crossed, but Morgan's father was what Mr. Dixon like to call an "uppity black". It wasn't that Merle's daddy disliked people of color. He just liked them to know their place, as he always made a point to say.

"Nah. He don't live nowhere no more. He's dead," Merle answered coldly.

"No shit? What happened to 'em?"

"Killed in the line of duty." Merle raked a hand through his cropped sandy curls, uncomfortable with the subject. He re-positioned himself on the barstool. "Took a bullet for me and they sent him out a hero."

"Goddamn. Sorry to hear that. I know y'all were close."

"We was," Merle stressed after a sip of his beer. Negan could read that there was more to the story, but Merle just went silent so he let it go.

When Mr. Dixon died from a massive heart attack, Merle and Morgan became inseparable. They decided to join the force after graduation. Morgan took to police work like a breeze and with confidence in his abilities, the old Sheriff assigned the two friends to be partners at work- just like they'd been all their lives.

Anyone in town could have told Negan how the mild-mannered cop was uncle Morg to Merle's little girl and a constant fixture in the little one-bedroom garage apartment that Paula clumsily tried to make a home.

But virtually no one knew the reason Merle's muscles tightened with anger anytime someone mentioned the friend who saved his life.

Weeks after Morgan's funeral, when Merle was on another bender of survivor's guilt, Paula stood in the middle of the floor and released months of pent up emotion in a sudden deafening scream. So loud, it finally got her young husband's attention and the baby girl on her hip shrilled in fear right along with her.

As Merle dodged the beer bottles she wildly flung through the air at him, she told her husband that she was mourning too. She bellowed, barely able to articulate clearly that he wasn't the only one who loved Morgan. She'd loved him, too and Merle had been an ignorant, neglectful ass to never have seen it.

His head swimming more from her words than his drink, Merle sat stunned at their hand-me-down dining room table. Amid the shattered glass and two broken hearts, she tearfully unraveled the reasons she loved his best friend in a way she never could, or would, love him. His shock ripened to a rage that rivaled his daddy's when Paula confessed she and Morgan were planning to leave him in the dust of county limits and make a new life elsewhere. That was the end of their haphazard coupling.

Negan abandoned the regrettable talk of ex-wives and deceased former best friends for something he and Merle now had in common. "How's that precious little girl of yours? You know I'm a daddy too, now. Name's Lucien. Just hit his teens. But your kid is a woman now, huh? I know you gotta be chasin' off the knuckleheads with that glock of yours…"

"My daughter's gone, too."

Negan sobered his playful demeanor, understanding he wasn't just separated from his kid because of the usual baby mama drama. The girl was dead. "Jesus. I'm really sorry about that. Real sorry, Dixon."

At first, Merle and Paula tried to co-parent but, as well as he knew the back roads, the 'high road' always seemed out of his way. Paula's lifestyle gave him ample opportunities to bad mouth her and he did, every chance he got. She found some low-life gambler crazy enough to marry her and went to live in Vegas. Visits became infrequent and calls to keep in touch became toxic shouting matches and useless attempts to assign blame.

His daughter soaked it all in like a sponge and grew up as belligerent as them both. With her mother's neglect and her father's guilt-driven allowances to make up for it, by the time she was 15, she was out of control. She got her first taste of beer at age six. Merle thought it was funny the way she wrinkled her nose at the taste. Her drinking lost it's humor when the red, white and blue she pledged allegiance to became her red solo cups, white powder and little pills called 'Blue Devils'.

At 16 years old, she ran away with, Craig Shumpert a known drug dealer and pimp. Merle was devastated. When they found her half naked in an abandoned crack den, sprawled out on a stained mattress and gone too soon from an overdose, Merle was determined to punish anyone he could for his sadness and regret. Himself most of all.

Emotions like those had since been disavowed by the KC lawman and replaced with a growing villainous anger.

Merle and Negan talked about cars and sports and old times for hours in that bar. Negan was always charismatic, but in high school that just put him out of Merle's league as a friend. But now, like Negan said, as two grown men without the trivialities of school or the wedge of interracial friendships, Merle was surprised by how much he enjoyed Negan's company.

That outing turned into another and another until, one day, Negan invited Merle to a friend's house for a Labor Day bar-b-q. By then the confederate symbols on their cars didn't seem so off-putting. The SS bolts tattooed here and there on the arms of the men he shook hands with and laughed with didn't seem so extreme. The racial slurs they used as punchlines to genuinely funny jokes were no reason to be alarmed.

A lot of what they said, about the decay of America being the direct result of bowing to contrived guilt over slavery and the dismantling of sorely needed segregation laws, made sense to Merle. He could see for himself the way dirty immigrants take food from the plates of little blonde babies. Of course, whites have always spearheaded the technological, industrial and medical achievements that prove beneficial to the whole world. Obviously, the popularity of people of color in entertainment was just a scheme of Jewish Hollywood to suppress the advancement of white Christians.

So, when Negan confessed to Merle that the main reason he'd come back to his roots was to save King County from the "niggers and the fags and the Muslims and the Jews", the elder Dixon nearly fell to his feet to kiss his black leather boots. According to Negan a trusted cop would be an invaluable asset to the King County chapter of the Saviors of the Confederate. Even though they had to keep their mission quiet, they were all charged with growing the ranks with their families, their friends and like-minded white Americans.

Negan called Merle every day to rally him to the right frame of mind. He placed such a call the day Michonne stayed late to help Aaron. The day Andre was worried about two homework packets ruining his weekend. The day his grandma Cookie was in a bad way for a hit and the moves Mike had to make couldn't wait.

That day Merle picked up the phone and without a greeting, Negan went right into his usual spiel like a drill sergeant, "We gotta stop playin' nursemaid to these fuckin' invaders and these lazy ass spooks and these Christ-hatin' Arabs. You see any of the aforementioned leeches gettin' outta line, you shut that shit down! You're a Savior with a badge, Dixon. That means you're doubly responsible and you gotta do twice the work."

"But that ain't nothin' new to Aryan blood, is it?" Negan's confident grin drench his voice with a maniacal tone. "Now we finally got someone with some goddamn sense in the oval office. And we're gettin' back to our former glory. But you're out there on the front line! And you owe a debt to your daughter and to your mother and to your community not to just hand over this country to mules and mongrels who want to take what we worked so hard for."

And with those words, Deputy Merle Dixon went out into the world.

It wasn't his intention the take anything from anyone that day. He simply went to work in an effort to reclaim what he believed had been taken from him. But take he did.

An innocent life, lost.

But Merle knew about loss, too. Daryl watched him go through alot, even before he could understand it all.

Still, easier than Daryl thought possible, his brother became unrecognizable in his beliefs. And yet, the ambition of white supremacy and segregation had made Merle Dixon more loyal to their familial bond. As he slowly and consciously distanced himself from the minorities he called co-workers and former friends he grew closer and kinder to his brother, a thing Daryl wanted for so long. That attention, however, came shrouded in a darkness the rookie found disgusting and pitiable once he met his brother's new friends.

...

Sweltering weeks of haze and humidity ran out in Georgia and a new November came in wetter and colder than any in recent memory. This day, however, was turning out to be beautiful. Hilltop Cemetery's lush green grass was now brittle and pale. Despite the sun, windchill factors made the vest Daryl wore over his hoodie woefully inadequate. He caught sight of his brother, much better prepared for the weather in his heavy khaki coat.

"To what do I owe this fuckin' honor?" Merle's eyes were pooling. His sarcasm came out sharp but he opened his arms wide for his kid brother.

"Knew you'd be here. Wanted to see ya."

The brothers embraced and after a couple hearty slaps on the back, they parted, both looking down at the black granite marker at their feet. Daryl crouched down to drop the bouquet of assorted purple flowers over the name etched in twining script: Enid Agatha Dixon, Daryl's niece. His brother's only child.

"Yeah? Why didn't you come by the house? You don't never come out here." It was true. Daryl hated to step foot inside Hilltop's gates.

The frosty air had his fingers numb and he wished he could transfer the feeling to his heart. He stood up. "You ain't never in no condition to talk when you're home. But I knew you'd be sober when you come out here to see 'er." He nodded toward his niece's final resting place.

Uncomfortable and ashamed at the obvious comparison to their father, Merle tensed and looked away. "So what's up."

"It's my year today."

"Damn." He proudly remembered, "Sure is."

"Yeah. Gotta meet up with the Sheriff and all of 'em tonight." Daryl mumbled, "But before I do that, I gotta talk to you about what happened with that kid and that stop."

"What'chu mean what happened? Don't you watch the news?"

"The news?" Daryl scoffed. "Yeah, I seen it. But I ain't need no reporter to tell what happened at Robinson park. I was there."

"Fuckin' jigs love to fuck shit up, don't they?

"Hell's wrong with you man? You ain't drunk. You been sayin' shit lately that ain't you. Everybody knows you're an asshole but since when did you stoop to racist?"

"You known me all your life, little brother. I call a spade a spade. That ain't new."

"But callin' people shit that'll get you kicked off the force is. You been doin' it more 'n more. You still listenin' to that piece'a shit Negan?"

"Fuck, not this shit again." Merle rolled his eyes. "What're you gonna tell me? I'm hangin' with the wrong crowd? You gonna tell me if I lay down with dogs, I'll get up with fleas? You don't think I heard that a'nuff from pop about Morg, growing up? Or mama's King James version," He mocked his mother's sweet-tempered tone, "'Evil communications corrupts good manners'. I didn't listen then and I ain't listenin' now."

"Problem is bullshit is still bullshit whether it's pop or some smooth-talker in a leather jacket. Your best friend was a black guy who saved your life and now you're jumpin' on the Savior's bandwagon who say your best friend weren't nothin' but a monkey. When I was little you told me he was better than you at everythang and that if I wanted to be like somebody, I should be like him. What would Morg say if he was still here?"

"Don't really make a diff'rence 'cause he ain't here. Another monkey killed 'em." Merle wanted to tell his brother how Deputy Jones betrayed him, but instead he picked at Daryl's scabs. "Eenie's dead too, thanks to a nigger. You seem to forget that."

Daryl talked over his brother's woes. "I couldn't forget it if I wanted to, Merle. You made damn sure of that."

"Everythang that ever meant anythang to me was taken from me by a nigger. Every part of town where they live looks like a fuckin' third world country… and 'fore you say the same bullshit T-Dog whines about, that it's some government conspiracy to keep black folks down, I'll remind you that the government pays their rent and gives 'em food stamps..."

"Merle I was raised on food stamps after pop died…"

"The drugs 'round here… niggers. The crime 'round here… niggers. Murders 'round here… niggers."

"And now cops."

Merle stopped his tirade and looked at his brother with daring eyes. "Not you too," he said in a half disappointed, half humored tone. "Okay, spit it out. I know you ain't come here to argue race relations."

"I ain't come here to argue at all. I just had to see your face when I ask you this…" Daryl exhaled a deep breath and trembled as the winter wind blew, "you knew that kid was in the car, didn't you?" He watched his brother's face fall from smug and snarky to bald-faced culpability.

They stared at each other a long while until Merle said, "You think I would do somethin' like that just because I say nigger sometimes? Even momma said nigger sometimes and she was saved and sanctified."

Daryl dropped his head in disappointment. "With all the commotion since that day and all the drinkin' you been doin' don't surprise me that you don't remember. But right before that call came over the radio for shots fired, you were on the phone with me."

Merle vaguely recalled. "Yeah? Ok. We was talkin' 'bout the game, I think." There was nothing significant about their conversation. He hurried Daryl's point, "And?"

"And right before you hung up to pull over that kid and his father, you said, 'Call you back. Gotta flash the lights on a pair of jigs. A pair, Merle!" Daryl's voice raised to a bitter pitch then broke under the impact of such an emotional blow, "A pair. How could you do that?"

Daryl knew his brother better than anyone. Defiance meant pushback but Merle's silence spoke volumes. He seemed resolved to his actions but still bristled when his brother yelled, "A fuckin' kid?!"

The younger man tried to compose himself. This wasn't about denouncing his brother, Daryl had always made it clear that he opposed Merle's newfound fanaticism. This was about Daryl trying to exorcise the demons from his brother's soul.

"How are you gonna look that woman in the eye? You know she wants to sit down with you. Wants to make sure you and Walsh know that she don't hold no ill will toward ya." Daryl scoffed hopelessly at how a bad situation was spiraling them to a point of no return.

"Yeah, I know." Merle's eyes were plastered on his daughter's headstone as he tried to strategize in his head. "You know I wouldn't kill no kid in cold blood, black kid or not." He passed the blame to steel his resolve, "His fuckin' daddy tried to run me over. I acted on instinct."

"Nah, man. Instinct'll tell you to get the hell out the way. A fuckin' predilection for murder'll make you shoot at a car with a kid in it." Daryl rasped with more anger and heartbreak than his body could contain. "I don't know… sometimes I think you got a taste for it after what you did to Shumpert. Maybe that fucked you up in the head 'steada givin' you some closure." Merle's face remained unchanged and Daryl tried again to pull some humanity from the man he used to admire, "I seen that boy's mother yesterday. That lady's life is ruined."

"When'd you see her? What for?" Merle began to pay more attention, scouting for any potential problems his brother might cause.

"Drove Grimes out to Grady Memorial. He ain't say much, but it's easy to see he's in love with'er." He stepped into his brother's space. "And let me tell you something, brother. From the look in his eyes, when he saw her in the emergency room, when Grimes finds out about this," Daryl ticked off each point on a different finger, "being one of them S.O.C. fuckers, losing your job and going to jail'll be the least of your problems."

Merle's eyes narrowed like a hawk hunting prey. "The investigation is closed. So, why would Grimes ever need to know that? Who's that information gonna help? Him? The situation already looks bad enough. I hear folks is already whisperin' 'bout makin' him resign if this thang don't quiet down soon. Monroe called Blake and I'm sure the governor would love to neuter Grimes completely."

Merle looked his younger brother dead in the eye. "If that little boy's mother decides to sue, she's gonna lose. Hard evidence is on my side. You think it's gonna help that lady? To put hate on her heart? You think it's gonna help Carol or Abe or the department as a whole?"

Merle could see Daryl understood but he wasn't ready to concede. He remembered that Negan always trumpeted the genius of fear of loss as a motivator. The slick-haired lowlife believed that what America's current president lacked in qualifications, he made up for in being an unstoppable force by stoking unrest.

The founder of the Savior's coached his disciples with the idea that hopeful promises could never grab the psyche like fear, acknowledging, the threat of hell worked like a charm for centuries on the uninformed masses. An unobtained good was so much more blurry in the mind's eye compared to the pain of loss that everyone has experienced. And the best part about it, Negan taught, was that all it took was to hint at some invisible misfortune and people's imaginations would do the rest.

"What you thinkin'?" Merle questioned the pensive young man before him, "You'll testify against me? Your own brother? Even if you had the balls to put me away for life, knowin' what happens to a cop in jail… nobody with a badge would ever trust you again. Your career'd be over And don't forget Walsh goes down with me."

"You both deserve it after what you did. He's just as guilty."

"No," Merle quickly interjected with a seditious smile and a heavy grip on his brother's slim shoulder. "See you're rushin' to judgement, now. No. Walsh had no idea. I had to damn near slap him 'cross the face just to get him to stop blubbering and apologizing to that boy's daddy before everybody got there." Looking off in the direction of a tall grassy bush swaying against the blue sky, he murmured to himself, seemingly hypnotized, "Never seen a man cry like that."

He fought off any pity and continued, "See, Walsh had just come out the gas station shitter. I saw the kid get in the car. But Walsh hopped in with me right before I pursued. When Lancey stopped, he approached the back passenger side while I approached the driver, like we was trained. Dark as it was, he never saw the kid until the car jumped the curb and slammed into a tree. He didn't even have his gun drawn at first. But when I let off a round, he backed me up. Like he should'a. 'Cos that uniform makes us brothers."

Daryl rubbed his hands over his face in what he would have described as disbelief until he realized it was plain horror.

"We're all brothers behind the blue." Merle said with malice. "But me and you, we was brothers before we wore this uniform. I practically raised you. That's why you helped me with that black bastard, Shumpert. 'Cos you owe me. He's in the ground today 'cos you loved'er as much as I did. Wherever my baby is, she'd want us to stick together. But I promise you, if this Lancey case goes to shit, I'm comin' clean about all of it- the whole plan, the money, where he's buried… all of it. Me and you, oh, we'll go to the penitentiary hand in hand, little brother.

* * *

 **A/N: "Jig" is the shortened form of jigaboo, a mostly southern racial slur.**


	12. Chapter 12: The Wrong Kind of Help

**A/N: To those who've been patiently waiting for this update I thank you. To those who reached out with an encouraging word, I thank you. For the follows, favorites and reviews, I thank you all.**

 **~comewithnattah**

 **Here's a quick recap for those that need it: Michonne and Rick are together and determined to stay that way. Her overprotective best friend Sasha, and powerhouse attorney, Andrea want Michonne to sue the county for Andre's death.**

 **But Andrea's motives are less than pure. She and Rick had a thing not long ago and she revealed her true colors to him when she found out he was with Michonne now. Rick's sister, Maggie, has better motivations but zero support for her brother's new choice.**

 **Merle is involved with a racist group. Daryl reveals that he knows his brother was not ignorant of Andre's presence in Mike's car when he opened fire and he's torn between loyalty to his blood brother or honesty with his friend and mentor, Rick.**

The Wrong Kind of Help

Merle left his brother standing in the graveyard to contemplate his future. To Daryl, he seemed confident in his ability to escape any looming repercussions, but betrayed by his skyrocketing heart rate, the elder Dixon could not deny the jeopardy he was facing.

On wobbly legs he climbed the steps to Negan's home office. Books, old ledgers and Civil War memorabilia lined the built-in oak shelves. A triangular glass case proudly displayed Old Glory's stars and stripes, folded in tribute to a fallen soldier. The wall opposite the big antique desk was covered in the bloody red of the Confederate flag, what they call the Southern Cross.

Scraggly Savior minions, Gavin, Gareth and Fat Joey left the room looking as though they were getting a second wind for whatever twisted task their fearsome leader had assigned them. His right hand man, Simon, occupied the leather canterbury chair in the corner of the room, picking the grime from his nails with a pocketknife.

He had proudly told Merle about his time in prison, how he infamously earned the spider web tattoos on his elbows by stomping two Mexican gangbangers into the cement floor. Merle had yet to find out exactly what he'd done to deserve the web ink on his neck. He only knew it had something to do with his nickname, 'Simon the Pieman'. As Negan's new favorite, Merle had found his way onto the mustached criminal's bad side. Simon liked to remind Deputy Dixon that a lap dog still had teeth.

The man he'd come to see reclined in his office chair on the other side of the room. His ankles crossed and heels resting on the large wooden desk, Negan projected an air of cavalier corruption. That element of menace was a particular draw to the tall dark haired woman who served him a tumbler of bourbon on ice and perched herself on the edge of his desk in her ratty flannel.

Her amateurishly applied smokey eye and smudged mascara under crooked blunt cut bangs, made her look like the crass, uncultured floater Merle knew her to be. She told everyone her name was Jadis because she thought it sounded more fierce than Anne, the mundane name her mother gave her. Speaking to her character, however, mother knew best.

All three sets of eyes were on him as he stood in the middle of the carpet with nerves that could be read on the richter scale. "Negan, I gotta talk to you."

"No problem, officer. You're the only cop that could get me to talk," Negan joked with an annoying smile.

Not in the mood for antics, Merle blurted anxiously, "Alone!" Then softened his brusqueness, "Please."

Negan's smile fell away seeing the grave expression on his new golden boy's face. "That means you, Jade. I guess Merle, here, don't subscribe to that 'the future is female' bullshit. Why don't you march those long legs of yours down the steps? See if any of the guys down there could use a blowjob." Jadis threw Negan an insulted glance. Goaded by that second of buck-back, Negan grew irritable and mean-spiritedly slighted her, "Just kiddin'. Your bj's are shit. Get the fuck out."

Leaving in a huff, she slammed the door behind her in a juvenile act of defiance and Merle looked pointedly to Simon waiting for him to follow suit.

"Guess you want me to leave, too," Negan's second in command asked as he exhaled wearily and braced himself on the armrests, pushing himself up from the chair. Instead of actually getting up, Simon issued Merle a blunt, "Fuck you," and repositioned himself comfortably in the chair making it clear he had no intention of leaving.

"Guess he's stayin'," Negan said with an obnoxious smirk, entertained by Simon's loutish disrespect. He broke the hate-filled stare between his two subordinates, "Pay Simon no mind. He spent too much time around niggers during his stint. He ain't properly housetrained yet. But as you know, I don't keep him around for his social skills. So what are we talkin' 'bout here?"

"It's my brother," Merle finally said after overriding his stubbornness and spite regarding Simon's presence. He rambled details of their conversation at Hilltop so quickly, Negan had trouble keeping up.

"So what are you tellin' me," Negan asked a visibly shaken Merle. "You saw what happened in Charlottesville when one of our more impassioned brothers turned some nigger-lovin' bitch protestin' our movement into roadkill. The cause is still recovering from that negative press. See, America wants to get the darkies under control, but we gotta keep certain methods outta the spot light."

The few inches he had on him intimidating the panicked deputy, Negan stood up and placed his palms on Merle's shoulders and squeezed. "Your position on the force is critical to our momentum here. The Saviors need you. I need you," he rasped sincerely, provoking a derisive snort from Simon. "Tell me the truth, now. Is your brother gonna be a problem for you? For us?"

Merle didn't answer. The benevolent tone in Negan's voice was unnerving and his heart sank as he worried about the magnitude of the predicament he'd gotten himself, and now his brother, into. All he ever wanted to do was protect him. It was what he'd done most of his life. It was something he was proud of, despite the sins he carried on his back, but now, he felt like he'd opened Pandora's box and his kid brother might end up as collateral.

"I'm not the kind of director that sits back while someone else does my dirty work. I know how hard it could be to make sure your brother understands that he's gotta keep is mouth shut." Negan assured Merle, only adding to his fears, "I'll talk to him for ya, if you need me to."

"No. I can handle him," Merle was quick to say. He attempted to draw attention away from Daryl. "It's the mother I'm more concerned about. We should be good unless she tries to prosecute."

"Okay. So you keep an eye on your brother," Negan resumed his jovial tone with a slap to Merle's back. Unable to remember Michonne's name and having no means to care less, he mocked black women in general for their fondness for unconventional names, "Just leave 'Shaniqua' to me." For a split second the chief Savior's grin turned ominous when he caught Simon's eye and winked.

It made the officer in the room tingle with fear as his mind wandered to all the possible ways Negan might try to persuade her to drop the idea of a case. Strangely, Merle felt less indifferent to the black woman's fate than he would have thought. But he could only buffer Negan's diabolical plans for his brother or Ms. August. He couldn't help them both. His throat went dry. Without any real plan to rectify the situation, he gave an ambivalent nod when the racist ringleader asked, "We got us a deal?"

...

"Ten… nine… eight… seven..." Michonne rested against Rick's chest, her neck cozied in the crook of his arm as he counted down the sunset in a whisper against her ear. Rick's down-filled work coat hung from her shoulders to stave off the November chill.

"You're going too slow," she giggled back as they stood out behind his house atop the downward slope of his backyard. The last seconds of soft orange light were leaving a magenta hue behind the streaks of cotton candied clouds. Something about the experience was so otherworldly.

Surrounded by the tall trees on his acres of property and submerged in the quiet the rural landscape afforded, Michonne couldn't help but think about how light can turn to dark so quickly. When she overheard Rick's angry exchange on his doorstep that morning, she had been yanked from the softest, safest place in the world and dashed to rocky reality in a matter of seconds.

When Rick told her who was offering him advice on his dealings with her and why, she felt so foolish for ever having sat down with Andrea Mitchell in the first place. As far as she was concerned the lawsuit was dead in the water. Sleazy private investigators, court motions and hearing the painful details of her son's death through cross-examinations were never things she wanted to endure.

Those things gone from her mind, however, she was cautiously intrigued by Rick's relationship with the confident, capable, successful blonde she had sat down with in Sasha's apartment. Confident, capable and successful were not words she would ever use to describe herself as a single mom struggling to stay afloat on the lowest rung of the fast-paced legal arena.

Compared to Andrea, Michonne felt like a regular girl with subpar accomplishments and the unflinching high profile attorney seemed much more suited to be with a man like Rick. She felt more than a little out of her league.

Michonne turned to hold her newfound love. She pressed her cheek against his heart, feeling silly for the slight twinge of jealousy she just couldn't suppress when she asked, "You ever count down the sunset with Andrea?"

Rick was surprised by the question and though Andrea was the last thing on his mind, he answered honestly, "I'll admit, I tried once. I don't know why. I knew she wasn't the type of woman who could be still with me long enough to see or hear or feel the blessings in beautiful thangs with me. But I was searchin' for somethin', I guess."

"And you've found it now?"

"I don't have any doubts, Michonne."

She knew his answer before he gave it, still she sighed in relief. "Because I really want this Rick. I just hope it's sustainable. I'm so scared to go back to the real world. I just have a terrible feeling that this is going to slip through our fingers or be snatched away from us somehow."

"If I could take that fear off your heart, I would. With everythang you been through lately, I know this is scary as hell. You can be scared, but just keep trustin' me." He stroked the curve of her chin with his bare hands that should have been freezing but felt warm on her delicate skin. Bringing her beautiful glazed eyes to his, his voice seemed to plead for her belief in him, "Can you do that?"

She nodded and surrendered to a kiss both tender and uncompromising as his palms slid over her ribs and pressed against her back. It was amazing to her how his attention could obliterate any uncertainty she felt, no matter how valid. His touch turned more forceful, his kiss, more insistent as he expressed his gratitude for this moment in convincing body language.

"I know we have to go, but..." Michonne ventured, pulling back from his sweet plump lips and covering half her face in shameful surprise at the words about to leave her mouth. He had made her completely wanton. "Will you make love to me again?"

...

"Are you sure you don't want me to walk you up," Rick asked Michonne under the pale yellow beam of the streetlight outside Sasha's apartment. They sat together in his truck, sometimes kissing goodbye just one more time, sometimes listening to just one more song on the radio and dissecting the lyrics. Neither of them wanted to call it a night.

"No, Rick. It's better you don't. She's going to be pissed at me. No need for you to catch any of that."

"I don't mind. I'm not scared of Sasha. And if she's gonna be mad at anybody, i'd rather it be me."

"You're sweet. But it's cool. Thank you for… everything." She ran a hand over the light scruff on his cheek. Her eyes lingered on the perfect angles that made up his handsome face as he smiled curiously at her pause. Leaning in, she pulled him closer for a soft wet kiss. She giggled at the way he hummed out the slightest little moan every time he tasted any part of her. Her face broke into a contented smile over his lips. "Call me later?"

Rick watched her exit the cab of his truck, so small amid the tall white buildings enclosing the leaf-covered courtyard of the well-maintained complex. He almost called her back. He would have, but she'd told him how much she thought of him for seeing the need to show appreciation for his crew in light of the hate they'd been receiving lately. It was the only reason he was letting her out of his sight.

Michonne dug for her keys inside her bag. She found the spare key to Sasha's apartment that had been on her key ring since the day her best friend moved in, but before she could turn the key in the lock, the door swung open.

"Thank God!" Sasha fell on her, tightly hugging her neck. "The hospital would only tell me you were gone," she said trying to rein in her boiling emotions. Above all, she was relieved and she had promised herself that she wouldn't go ballistic as soon as she saw Michonne. "I was so worried."

"I didn't mean to make you worry. I texted to say I was okay…"

"Yeah. But then you ignored the rest of my texts and calls."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just needed... some time…"

Sasha let her go and stood back to get a good look at her. She was comforted to see Michonne looking well-rested and well cared for. For having been God-knows-where all night and all day, she lacked the peckish, ashen appearance she had developed since her tragedy. Her countenance proved her to be hydrated, moisturized, fed and serene.

The unfamiliar big brown coat swallowing Michonne's frame gave Sasha pause before she could be too happy with her noticeably undisturbed aura. "Who's coat is this?" A little rougher than she meant to, she turned Michonne's body to the side for signs of the coats owner. Not knowing exactly what she was looking for, she found the answer in bold, gold lettering across the back of the bomber-style jacket. She dropped her hands from her best friend's shoulders and folded her arms over her chest petulantly. "Sheriff?"

"Yes. I was with Sheriff Grimes. With Rick." Michonne confirmed hurrying to pull his coat off her body, like she was hiding red from a bull. "He came and got me from the hospital last night."

"Last night?! You've been with him all this time?!" Sasha scoffed a little when she asked, mostly in jest, "So, you fucked him?"

Michonne stepped around her moving further into the apartment, her silence an answer in itself.

Turning to look her friend in the face, the calm and collected demeanor Michonne had when she first arrived was beginning to crumble.

For some reason, Sasha felt bamboozled by this whole turn of events, like Rick had swindled something from her grieving friend. Since they were kids, Sasha's role was always that of protector. In her own estimation, she was doing a terrible job. She felt like the green victim of a professional conman. She pinched the bridge of her nose, took a deep breath and smoothed both hands back over her curly mane.

"Okay. Wow... Y'all really went there," she said more to herself than Michonne. Conceding in her mind that he had won the battle, but not the war, she acknowledged in a resolved tone, "Well, he got something out of all that game he's been running. I get that you probably needed a distraction with everything going on. Hopefully you had a good time and got that out of your system." Sasha's disappointment was unmistakable. She downplayed the revelation and moved on. "I think we should get with Andrea after the funeral for a press conference to let the county know we plan to sue."

"I have to talk to you about that. I decided I'm not doing that." Michonne shook her head, resolved.

"Why? Let me guess. He talked you out of it?"

"This has nothing to do with Rick…"

"It's his department! How can you say it has nothing to do with him? This is what I've been trying to warn you about since you started making googly eyes at this dude! He's just manipulating you for his benefit!" Sasha grimaced trying to understand why her friend was being so naive. "Michonne, look, this is not something we can sit on. There have already been two more police shootings in bigger cities that are getting national coverage! We're close to getting an interview for you on CNN. Andrea said..."

"I'm not interested in anything Andrea Mitchell says."

"Why not?"

"She used to be involved with Rick…"

"Oh perfect! And, of course, he doesn't want his current fuck buddy talking to his ex. We both know that's a classic player move. I understand the appeal, Chonnie. He's handsome and very charming for a white guy… but isn't every hoe ass, booty call dude?"

"He is NOT some hoe ass dude!" Michonne narrowed her eyes. The disrespect being slung at Rick was hard to step around. Her temper rarely flared, but she was compelled to defend him. "He has a name! Rick Grimes! When you talk about him, you say his name! He deserves that, at least!"

Sasha sobered, taken aback by her normally even-tempered friend's outburst. Michonne tried to remind herself that cutting words were just the language Sasha spoke. Speaking through the gnashing of her teeth, Michonne now defended herself, "You didn't let me finish. She used to be involved with Rick and she came to his house while I was there. She had a lot to say about me being there. According to her, as the 'blackest black woman he could find'," air quotes framed the excerpt from Andrea's doorstep rant, "being with me is gonna ruin his life."

Sasha rolled her eyes dramatically, unmoved by the comment, "Oh come on, Michonne. Since when do white women love us? Especially when their men are so attracted to us."

"What?!" Michonne couldn't believe her ears. The Sasha she knew would be ready to ride over to Ms. Mitchell's office, put her right hand on a bible and slap the 'so help me God' out of her for throwing any amount of shade at her best friend. Instead she seemed to be making allowances.

"Michonne, at the end of the day, Andrea is only going to help you as far as it helps Andrea. This is the game we have to play with people like her to get what we want. The less they talk about Andre the less it serves her agenda. That's why we can't wait."

Michonne's heart was racing. She felt like she was in some sort of bizarro world, where up was down and in was out. Cocking her head in disbelief, she spoke calmly, "So we know Andrea's agenda. What's yours?"

Sasha's hand covered her heart in legitimate shock, hurt by the implication. "I don't have an agenda," she swore, though her eyes avoided Michonne's direct gaze.

"Sash..." her best friend whispered tenderly, approaching her slowly, noting the tears in her eyes. She pulled her into her arms as Sasha held her breath, fighting back the emotion rising in her throat like bile. "We both know what this is really about. A hundred convictions on these cops won't heal what's hurting you as long as Robbie Vogt is out there living his life unpunished."

Pushing away any comfort, Sasha yelled, "I don't want to hear that name, goddammit! People are not gonna keep disrupting our lives while we just sit here and take it! Fuck that! I'm getting justice for my godson!" She spoke sarcastically, "You're too busy spreading your legs for your oppressor to see it through, I guess."

"Oppressor? Aren't you the same girl who complains about getting too 'black' in the summer?" They spoke over each other. "When did you become so woke?"

"That's always been your fucking problem, Chonnie." Sasha ignored Michonne, continuing with her rant, "You got your momma's heart. Your kindness is your weakness. Too busy trying to love everybody when mothafuckers don't really love you! Maybe if you hadn't been staying late to suck up to Aaron at work, Andre would still be here."

The words came out as fast and furious as Michonne's open hand screamed across Sasha's face. The sting of the slap took her out of her emotions and the cruelty of her angry words took her breath away. "Fuck," the fiery woman immediately exhaled. Her palms pressed together in front of her stinging lips, she spoke through frantic gasps, "I'm sorry, Chonnie. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I didn't. I love you, Chonnie. Please. I wish I could tell you how much."

Equally shocked by her own reaction, Michonne put a lid on her eruption. This time Sasha didn't pull away when her friend with the golden heart came rushing in to hold her through her contrition. "Why can't you see how much I love you? I've had your back so long, I just blend into the background, I guess. Then this white guy you barely know comes along and you fall head over heels," she wept on Michonne's shoulder, pulling her close.

"I can take care of us, Chonnie, in a way he can't. He doesn't know what it's like for us. But I know you. I _am_ you. We've cried the same tears and sang the same songs and danced and laughed all night." An errant chuckle infiltrated her tears as she remembered how nothing else in her life ever mattered to her more than Michonne. She raised her head from Michonne's neck and locked eyes with her, holding her friend's dusky cheeks in her hands.

Sasha closed her eyes as their foreheads met. "I've felt... " she struggled for the words and the courage to finally speak them, "for a long time, I've felt like we belong together." She whispered as her nose brushed over Michonne's, "It's been me and you for a long time now. You me and Andre. Nobody else. I was satisfied with that. I wanted more, but I was happy with that. If Andrea wants him let her have him. It ain't like you can live in his world and he can't live in ours. We're all we have. We can take care of us… like we always have."

Michonne pulled back a touch in confusion. "What do you mean, Sash?"

"I'm not gay, Chonnie," Sasha prefaced, though she couldn't say why. "You know I've always been attracted to men." She put on a shaky smile. "But I look at you... and I just want to sing. It's just you, Chonnie. I'm in love with you." Michonne slipped further out of her grasp until the only thing Sasha held were the tips of her fingers. "You're my soulmate."

"Oh my god, Sash."

"I saw it. I saw it that night he came over." Sasha's tears started again. She pointed an accusatory finger and scoffed, feeling her intuition was vindicated. "I saw what was happening between you two. I know you, Chonnie and I know men. I knew Rick was staking a claim like men do, trying to push me out. Guys are always giving you the eye, but you never pay them no mind. Why now? Why him?"

Michonne felt completely blindsided. She never in a million years expected this was on the heart of the woman before her. The revelation didn't upset her, she simply wanted her friend to know that her falling in love with the sheriff would never dampen the feeling she had for her.

"Sasha, I love you too. I do. I always will. You're my best friend."

"Best friend?" Sasha scoffed disdainfully at the title now that she had bore her soul. She heard Michonne's answer loud and clear. Honestly, she always knew that was the answer she would get, but the arrival of Rick Grimes into their lives made her desperate and possessive. "Best friends gossip. Best friends take selfies. Go shopping. Share makeup. Best friends is kiddie shit. Best friends don't tell each other the things they'd rather die than remember. Best friends don't raise a child together."

Michonne stumbled backwards, left completely dazed. The backs of her knees found the couch and she dropped into its cushions, sinking like a stone. "Is that what you thought we were doing? Raising Andre together?"

"We weren't? If I wasn't that boy's other parent, then who was? Mike? Who was Andre's emergency contact on every field trip permission slip? Who is your emergency contact in your medical file? I was there when you heard his heartbeat the first time. Mike wasn't even there to see him be born. You pushed Andre out and we cried together over how beautiful and chocolate he was..."

"Yes. It's true, Sasha." She cut her friend off and acknowledged, "You've always been there for me. I'm so thankful for that. You've always been a blessing to me. Maybe we are soulmates, in a way." Michonne chose her words carefully, wanting to make herself clear while not causing her friend any unnecessary pain or embarrassment.

Hearing Michonne agree to the possibility of them being soulmates, Sasha wiped her eyes as she circumvented her coffee table and dropped to her knees in front of the girlfriend she'd loved so long. Her hands came to rest atop the plump of Michonne's thighs, awaiting her next words. The body heat radiating from her oldest friend's touch through Michonne's denim was not the comfort it should have been.

The precursor to let down slowly sliced into Sasha's heart, "But…" She swallowed thickly, trying to be strong as she awaited whatever excuse Michonne would come up with. "Sasha, I _am_ in love with Rick."

Sasha let her hands slide from her friend's legs as she processed what she was saying. Devastated, she stood up, turning her back to Michonne. She wanted to cry but tears would no longer come, only a hemorrhaging sensation in her head. Her anger got the best of her.

"You love him?" Her tone was incredulous. "You. Don't. Know. This. Man, Chonnie!" She clapped her hands emphatically then mellowed. Rubbing a hand over her face in frustration, she lamented the irony, "You got your momma's heart, but you're as stubborn as your daddy."

Sasha played psychologist. "And speaking of your daddy, that evil bastard really fucked you up, didn't he? What is it? You see Rick in his uniform and it triggered all your daddy issues? Well, guess what Chonnie. Sometimes men ain't the answer, babygirl."

Michonne absorbed Sasha's commentary but stood proudly despite her friend's unflattering appraisal. She answered her calmly, "Sasha, I don't have to explain to you who I love or why I love them. I couldn't explain it if I wanted to. All I can tell you is, it's not what you think. Rick and I know what we're doing. I need you to respect that. Respect him and, most of all, respect me in my decisions."

Sasha's heart dropped. She went mute for a moment, eyeing Michonne, unsatisfied with her final word. "I'm sorry. I can't…" Sasha gave up. "And I swear this is not about rejection, but he is not right for you. This whole situation is fucking cursed and I can't watch you go through anymore pain. You won't agree to the lawsuit. You won't leave this man alone.

Sasha looked away, studying the abstract strokes of blue in the painting above her couch. She forbade another tear to fall from her eyes. "Looks like you don't need any help from me this time. So, I guess that's it. I'm done. Goodnight." She walked back to her room without another glance toward her oldest friend.

"Sash! Sasha!" Michonne tried to call her back, until she realized that they both had spoken their truth. There was nothing different she could say to comfort her best friend, no matter how much she wanted to.

Michonne changed her clothes and packed her things. When she knocked on Sasha's bedroom door to say thank you and goodbye, her best friend since forever refused to respond. She left Sasha's apartment with all her bags and the added weight of guilt, the scald of anger and the discomfort of confusion from such a jarring confession. She couldn't say where she was headed until she found herself sitting in her run-of-the-mill four door car, studying the house she grew up in, with teary eyes.

The white middle class colonial, half covered with vines, stood two stories tall. She hadn't been inside it's walls in forever, it seemed. She could tell from the blue glow in the first floor window that he was still up watching TV. Some crime drama, she had no doubt.

The shadow passing by the curtains had to be her mother taking his empty dishes back to the kitchen, always the dutiful wife. The phone would be tucked between her ear and shoulder as Aunt Bernice yammered nonstop.

Still, she remembered the mix of her father's aftershave and the new carpet they got when she was about 14 that became the house on Washington street's signature smell. She could still hear the shuffle of her mother's house shoes on the kitchen's glazed brick floors. She could still remember the sight of her reflection in an arabesque after moving the tables and chairs to dance in front of the wall of mirrors in their dining room.

The last time she walked through that door, she was leaving to start a life on her own terms for her and her unborn son. Now as her car idled, she sat trying to decide if she should walk through that door again and attempt to reconcile with her parents. A kiss on the lips from her mother used to make her whole world bright. A goodnight hug from her father would evaporate all the monsters creeping in the corners in her room.

She hugged herself instead, feeling like a little girl again behind her steering wheel. She remembered Rick's words, _We can conquer the evil with the good_. She had grown a lot in the years since she lived here. She was more level-headed, less spiteful. Dealing with Mike and his irresponsibility for Andre's sake, made her learn to stand up for herself with maturity. Grinding, accepting help and rebounding from disappointing setbacks had humbled her immensely.

Maybe it was time to let bygones be bygones. Maybe…

But she couldn't bring herself to knock on the door. There was still too much pain on the other side. The fear of things not working out was paralyzing. What had ever worked out for her in life? She felt like she had lost more than she ever gained, no matter how hard she tried. She was tired.

 _Sasha's right, no one could ever understand our struggle._ It hurt her to admit it. Whether this thing with Rick would endure remained to be seen. After a long time wrestling negative thoughts and scraping up the pieces of her hopes and dreams. She decided she could only stand on one precipice at a time. She put her car in drive and pulled away from the dark and deserted street.


	13. Chapter 13: The Necessity of Instinct

**The Necessity of Instinct**

Rick navigated through the moonlit maze of cars on the Ford's lawn. He consciously tried to fight off the goofy grin and red blush that spread across his face every time he thought about Michonne. He truly was looking forward to spending some time with his team. They knew him well. It wouldn't take stellar police work to see that he had fallen in love, gotten laid and was in the throes of lovesick separation.

He could only hope the chance to shed some stress and rally around Daryl in celebration of his first full year on the job would take the attention off of him. Some of them were starting to let the intensifying hate in the streets get to them. There had been a couple of in house tiffs. One sparked between T-Dog and Abe when the former implied that Abe had never experienced any hardship that could compare to being a black man in America.

But Rick knew that Abraham Ford had been born addicted to heroin. He developed a stutter when he was little, to which life added childhood obesity, dyslexia and bipolar disorder. Whether those personal burdens could be likened to racism in any way, Rick wasn't qualified to say. What he did know was that his crew was a family.

Petty squabbles were not uncommon, but he'd be damned if he was going to allow any break in their bond over an unfortunate accident, tragic though it was. His people were good people, imperfect but good. It would do them good to acknowledge the courage they all displayed on a daily basis out of care and concern for their community. They deserved it.

Abraham's house was always the place the crew met up. The large unfinished basement was the quintessential mancave. The little Fords were in bed. His wife, Ellen, was nice enough to pause her Lifetime movies to answer the door in her fluffy robe and slippers to point any of her husband's guests towards the noise coming from the lower level of their house. Big screen, surround-sound speakers, pool table, dart board, stocked bar- Deputy Ford could charge a cover from his friends if he wanted.

Rick was unusually late to the soiree and his absence had been felt as evidenced by the roar of welcome he received when his boots and dark wash jeans were seen coming down the steps. Every drink was raised in salute of their beloved sheriff. But as he made his way into the party of smiling faces and Alyce Cooper's vocals, he noticed the crew still looking expectantly at the staircase behind him.

"Where's Backwoods?" Rosita was the first to speak up. "He's not with you?"

"He ain't here?" Rick scanned the room as Abraham turned down the music and pushed a heavy glass of beer in his hand. "Anybody heard from him?"

Heads shook as eyes darted around the room for answers. Rosita put down her drink and snatched up her phone to call him.

"We assumed he was with you, since you both were late," Carol explained to Rick with worried eyes from the table of potluck dishes.

"Voicemail," Rosita announced holding up her phone. She bit up her fresh manicure nervously.

"Noah and Chambler are at the station. See if they've heard from him," Abraham suggested.

"Think we should've postponed?" Rick looked to Carol, feeling like he'd made the wrong call.

Carol had as much time on the force as anyone. She could've been sheriff herself, if King County wasn't full of misogynistic voters- who would be stumped if asked the meaning of misogyny, yet still allowed to cast a ballot. She shared Rick's frame of mind that this opportunity to blow off steam was exactly what everyone needed. Now she could only offer him an unsure shrug in response.

As the life was drained from the party and Carol questioned Noah over the phone, another pair of tied black laces under the pressed brown of the King County uniform came stomping slowly down the steps. It was tradition for the guest of honor to come fully suited up- badge to belt to boots- while everyone else wore civies.

"Cancel the APB, folks," Abe said with a relieved smile. "Here's our boy now." He lifted his cup in Daryl's direction.

The man of the hour nodded back stiffly with a tempered smile under his deputy hat. Apprehensively, he looked around the room watching the scattered faces fall when they saw who was following him down the staircase.

"S'up Dixon," T-Dog called out to Merle with a blatantly antagonizing tone.

"What's up, little pup," Merle snipped with an insidious grin, mocking the stocky bald man's nickname. The rookie turned to cut his eyes at his brother, wordlessly begging him not to start in with T. Daryl shook his head knowing this initial exchange did not bode well for prolonged civility. "What," Merle asked defensively. "He started with me."

Rosita made her way to Daryl's side, privately questioning if he was alright as she took his coat. She could see something was 'off' about his demeanor. "Oh, he's fine," Merle shooed her away. "He just needs a drink. Why don't you go get him one?"

If looks could kill Merle would have shriveled up and died on the spot. She spat some Spanish curse at him and took Daryl by the hand, leading him toward the alcohol. "Don't get spicy with me, 'Taco Tuesday'," the unwanted guest hollered at her back.

"Hey, man," Daryl intervened, "Lay offa her."

"Fuck you," Rosita added.

"Some reception I get," Merle played the victim, stepping further into the room.

The host swallowed down his drink, his red whiskered top lip curling with the burn of the vodka and the involuntary sneer at the sight of Merle. "Didn't think you were coming, Dixon. You've been M.I.A. down here for a while."

"And miss celebratin' my brother's first year?" Merle's attempt to be charming sent eyes rolling. "What, I ain't welcome 'round my brothers no more?"

"Just don't cut up in here," Abraham commanded in a voice that told Merle this was his first and final warning. "I will throw your ass outta here quicker than a cat at bathtime. This is about your brother. No talking politics or anything else that'll make my ass itch. Understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I hear ya. I want to talk to Grimes anyway." Merle stepped through the mix of his co-workers walking over to Rick, where he stood beside Carol. She chomped a baby carrot, pursing her lips, regarding the man suspiciously as he approached.

Rick pushed out an annoyed sigh. "What?"

"Sorry, I never got back to you. I, uh, been really, you know, overwhelmed by what happened. But I been thinkin' bout it. I do wanna meet with... that boy's mother…"

The sheriff took offense. "That little _boy_ had a name. Andre August-Lancey," Rick supplied. "Say his name."

"Yeah, sorry... Andre." Merle fished for more information, "Heard you been keepin' in touch with her."

"Yeah, well my deputies killed her son… seems kinda heartless to act like she don't exist. Don't ya think?" Rick finally raised his eyes to Merle's, blue challenging blue, he called out Dixon on his callousness. Merle shifted on his feet and rolled his shoulder to shake off any blame.

Sidestepping the Sheriff's question, Merle asked, "So, you think she's still open to a face to face?"

"Tell you the truth, Merle, I don't know if it's such a good idea, her meetin' with you." Rick took a swig from his frosted mug, looking off into the gathering of people under his charge all of whom, in some shape or form, had been insulted by Merle's crassness.

"What? You been at me for days to set this up with her," Merle stood confused, "and now you don't think it's a good idea?"

"She ain't in the best shape emotionally and I think I'd take it personal if you said somethin' outta line to her." Rick warned, his distemper blazing from his narrowed eyes. "I'll talk to her and get back to you on that. You heard from your partner? You know, she wants to sit down with you both."

"Well, shit. He's _your_ best friend. I thought you woulda been keepin' in touch." Rick's unpleasant expression turned more rancid and Merle decided it was best just to answer the question. "No. Haven't heard from him. Haven't seen hide nor hair of 'em since the two of us was in your office." Merle seized the opportunity to find out more about his chances of standing trial, "He's probably layin' low hopin' the boy's mother…"

"Ms. August."

"Yeah. He might be worried that she'll sue. I'm sure you're tryin' to keep that option off the table for him, though. Right? I mean, that'll go bad on all of us. Even you… especially you, if I know Monroe and Blake."

"Maybe so, Merle, but I hope Ms. August does what's good for Ms. August. Whatever the repercussions are for me or you… well, I ain't worried. You been doin' this long enough to know that our jobs are about puttin' everythang on the line for the people we serve, ain't it?" Rick shrugged and chugged the rest of his drink, dropping the mug to the table. He walked away, staring Merle down until he was out of his view.

"We're all gonna be fucked if she pursues a case," Merle said to Carol as he watched Rick walk away.

"Not as fucked as she is, losing her kid." Carol said quietly, moving closer to his side. "We've known each other a long time and both of us know that pain, Dixon. You've always been a jerk, but I know you wouldn't wish that kind of pain on anybody. Why are you so worried about it?"

Carol couldn't imagine any threat coming from the poor, deflated woman she'd seen shrinking from cameras and reporters on TV. "You got the kid's father, he had drugs in the car, he tried to run… even with Andrea Mitchell representing her, what could come of it? Maybe a lawsuit would give Ms. August some much needed closure. What's wrong with that? God knows I wish there was someone to blame when Sophia came out of remission. I'm sure you wished the same when drugs took your baby girl."

Carol was right, of course. Closure and vengeance were the reasons that drug dealing pimp Shumpert disappeared off the face of the earth. But Merle only grumbled out his discontent barely acknowledging Carol's reasoning. He left her there fussing over the table arrangement when he saw Daryl approaching Rick near the pool table.

"Hey Rick. Gotta talk to ya." Daryl timidly broached a conversation with Rick.

Leaning against the arm of Abe's oversized leather couch, Rick turned to Daryl, "Hey man, I didn't get a chance to thank you for the other day."

"Yeah, no problem, man." Daryl mumbled humbly, "How's she doin'?"

"Better, y'know. She's doin' better. Thank God." Rick smiled a bit in relief.

"You seem to be doin' better, too. I don't know what it is, but you seem… a whole lot happier than you did last time I saw you.

Rick just grinned, dropping his eyes to the floor sheepishly, "So, what'dya wanna talk to me about?"

The smile on Rick's face gave Daryl pause. Saying anything about Merle would explode any happiness his boss was finding. According to Rick, even Michonne was on the road to heal from the trauma of losing her son. He was leaning toward the opinion that Merle was right. Who would actually benefit from him rolling on his brother? It would hurt a lot more people than it helped and none of it would bring back little Andre.

Daryl's tongue was sandpaper and the sticky dryness of his throat amplified the sound of all the saliva he could muster being pushed down. He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what would come out. "Rick, I…"

"Hey, little brother." Merle joined the two men, interrupting Daryl's sputtering courage. He clapped the younger man on his back with a smile. "I gotta say, I'm proud of you, baby boy. Seems like just yesterday, I was helpin' you write your name. Now look at it."

Merle plucked at the nametag on Daryl's uniformed chest and declared with wonder, "A man of the law! Hey, remember when that big sum'bitch, Joey was drunk and actin' a fool in the strip mall? And my little brother tackled his ass and put him in a chokehold… which are totally illegal."

"We all saw the footage." Rick smirked while everyone else laughed in earnest. Amused by the memory, he put his distemper aside and agreed with Merle, "Totally illegal…"

"Well, that son of a bitch had me by a hundred pounds," Daryl defended.

Rosita crunched on a tortilla chip. "That's what you've got a partner for, Backwoods."

"Nah, I couldn't let you get hurt. That guy would've mopped the floor with ya. Meanwhile he's smashin' China House to smithereens demandin' an extra egg roll," Daryl countered dryly to the basement's amusement. "Old lady Chan was hysterical."

"Hey, I can hold my own," the tiny Latina huffed, sparking laughter from the other county staff members who knew it was all too true.

"Yeah, well, I know that _now_ …"

"Point is, you did what you had to do to get the situation under control. Makin' split second decisions gotta be like second nature to a cop," Merle explained, confronting Rick and his brother with a steely stare. The lighthearted mood of the story changed on a dime.

As much as Merle's presence grated everyone there, none of them could deny that he was right. They had all been in situations like the one being described. They had all bent the law one way or another. There are a litany of rules and procedures. But in a job where things escalate unexpectedly one second to the next, sometimes human instinct supersedes training as a necessity. Given recent events, though, the degree of enthusiasm for Merle's standpoint was not what it would have been.

Cutting through the awkwardness of the conversation, Rick's cell rang from his pocket.

"Hey," he answered the call as his features relaxed. He turned his back to the party of suspicious onlookers. "You okay?" He went silent for a few moments listening as the person on the phone spoke. "Don't you dare… you ain't," he said, firmly. "You don't have to." He was already moving toward the stairs. "Just wait. I'm on my way."

...

Michonne ended up at her own house, the short walkway to her front door was now devoid of the press that swarmed about days before. She spotted one lone vehicle. She recognized one of the two men sleeping against their car door windows as Dale Horvath, a local reporter.

Though Michonne found him more polite than some of the other newscasters who'd been hounding her for an interview, to her, the nicotine scented, work-weary pressman was simply an annoyance. She drove past them, hoping he would continue to sleep long enough for her to get inside her house without having a microphone shoved into her face.

The 1940's style cape cod she purchased a couple years ago sat on a short street in the middle of a patchy lot of grass, mostly hidden by the cover of dark. Motion sensored lights illuminated the open space of her carport. The concrete floor of the double posted structure was empty except for a single reminder of Andre.

A tiny bike with training wheels was parked near the steps. Her car inched forward cautiously. Even though there were no surprises for her the further she crept in, she felt like her emotions might ambush her at any moment.

A tired exhale left her lungs as she slouched in the seat. Her head on the headrest, she closed her eyes thinking about everything that had happened to her in just the past 24 hours. Things that she wished she could have seen coming and things she wished she could keep going forever and how all of these crazy things stemmed from the most nightmarish and unfathomable.

Rolling her head over the headrest, she looked in the seat beside her and saw the helmet Rick had pushed into her hands the night of the riot sitting on one of her packed totes. Light reflecting off the face shield reminded her of the way Rick's eyes flashed when he looked at her that night. The sight sent a bombardment of heat from her belly to her scalp.

Preferring to wear his coat, her jacket laid atop the helmet and hanging from it's pocket was the handkerchief he left in her hand the first time she laid eyes on him. He was so full of calm and understanding while withstanding the blaze of her misplaced anger.

The undecorated square of soft, thin fabric was so similar to the sheriff. Something seemingly generic and cliche. Sasha would have argued that those words aptly described the handsome man who had stolen her heart… that he shouldn't have meant anything to her.

Still, like the handkerchief, he gave her an odd sense of comfort. He caught her tears and soothed her with a softness that was simply part of his make up. She was determined to keep him forever and cherish him like the cotton keepsake between her fingers.

Michonne pulled her phone from the deep pocket of the brown parka she wore. Just hearing the ringing on the other end seeking him out, whatever his location, made her close her eyes with contentment. His gruff voice, so savage yet compassionate, uttered a one syllable greeting that immediately made her limbs lighter and her head swim. All he wanted to know was if she was alright.

"I'm fine. Just… I don't know. Me and Sasha kind of had a falling out. I don't really know how it happened. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it…" She massaged her brow with her hand, shaking her head hoping some clarity would fall out. "I thought about reaching out to my parents but I'm not sure I could deal with anymore drama out of them. I know I'm interrupting your night. I'm sorry-"

She smiled and blew out another breath when he dared her to apologize. This time it was a cleansing breath, preparing her to receive the love she could feel building on the line, ready to envelop her entirely, even from a distance.

"So I just came home. I'm just sitting in my driveway trying to work up the courage to go inside, you know? I just keep thinking of all the things I'll see inside that might break my heart and," she threw her head back to jettison words that seemed so needy and irrational, "I'm scared to go in by myself."

There was zero lag between her admission, his reassurance and his promise to come.


	14. Chapter 14: Burning

**Burning**

Rick's truck turned into Michonne's driveway. The movement of the big body frame triggered the sensor for the lights revealing the silhouette of her waiting in her little economy car. At the sight of his headlights, she opened her door, meeting him between the two vehicles and poured herself into his arms.

"Rick…"

"I'm here, love. Don't you worry. I'm here," he said kissing her temple and holding her tight. "You're gonna be okay."

The sound of scuffling soles cut their reunion short. Loosening their embrace they turned, squinting, to the glare of the camera light sitting on Morales' shoulder. Michonne whimpered as Rick moved her out of the path of the bright white beam, giving the camera lens a shot of only his broad back.

"Ms. August, I'm Dale Horvath, investigative reporter with channel four news." The older man flicked his cigarette butt and moved as fast as his stiff and tired bones could carry him. "I just want to ask you a few questions about the death of your son. Please."

Michonne planted her face squarely in Rick's chest, hiding. "Why won't they leave me alone! I don't want to answer any questions!"

"Okay. I'll get him out of here," Rick whispered tenderly into her hair. He turned then to the men accosting them, shielding Michonne with a tall, hostile stance. He was like a completely different man, fearsome and harsh. Michonne shivered when his voice boomed, echoing through his shoulder blades where she was taking cover. "Get the fuck back! Back up! Back!"

Morales withdrew, one step and then another. Dale stood frozen, momentarily paralyzed by the unexpected fury before him. He almost turned to run, until he recognized the man breathing fire. "Sheriff Grimes? …King County?" His thirst for reporting superseded his fear and he curtailed an excited smile, thinking this story just got that much more interesting. "If she don't want to talk, can I ask you some questions?"

Michonne watched, unsure of what to do, as Rick's boots pounded the concrete floor. He marched up to the reporter, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed to slits. The officer spoke with a grisly intensity.

"Can you ask me some questions? That what you said?" Rick inquired rhetorically on an aggressive head tilt. Dale's smoke blackened lungs shrank over his wildly beating heart. His chapped lips parted but no sound came out. He only gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

Rick's tone was eerily calm, "Mr. Horvath, you and your colleague are trespassin'. That's bad enough, but you're also upsettin' Ms. August."

Rick stepped to the side to give Dale a better view of Michonne's petite frame, swallowed up by Rick's coat, looking taxed and unnerved. Resuming his imposing posture, Sheriff Grimes presented the barrel of his personal firearm to the men and began backing them off of her property until they reached the sidewalk.

"She ain't takin' questions. But I'll make a statement," Rick said, turning to walk back up to the house, not even bothering to look them in the eye. "Next time you come here botherin' her, I'm pullin' the trigger."

Slipping his gun back into the holster at the small of his back, he collected Michonne and walked inside the house.

"You get all that, Morales," Dale asked as he checked his watch and pulled out an old school spiral top notebook to jot down the time and circumstances of the encounter. His cameraman was silent. "Morales!"

"Yeah, yeah. We got it." The hairy man snapped out of it, stopped recording and turned off the camera light.

"Sheriff Rick Grimes... with this lady," Dale exclaimed. "This story is something else entirely now."

"Yeah. It's a death sentence," Morales scoffed, walking back to their van. "I'm pretty sure that guy was serious. I'm not trying to get shot. My last name is _Morales_ ," he said his own name, pronouncing the 'r' with an exaggerated roll of his tongue. He was proud of his heritage, though it wasn't always a benefit in American society.

"All three of my brothers are bangers. I got uncles doing time. I got cousins in the ground and I don't want to join them. I went into broadcasting to _avoid_ getting shot at by cops. So if it's all the same to you, I'm good with leaving this part of the story out."

"Are you crazy? What we had before was good. Then the kid gets killed and…" Dale was lost for words, not wanting to sound like a heartless asshole, he trailed off and came back to make his point. "All I' saying is, this ain't just local news no more. Besides, I guarantee, Grimes'll help us once he finds out what we know."

"Maybe he already knows. Maybe he just doesn't care."

"Trust me, he doesn't know. You'll see. He'll be like a hound on stink. We just gotta get to him when he ain't so... high strung."

...

"You alright?" Rick asked softly through short breaths, rubbing Michonne's shoulders and the length of her arms. They stood next to her washer and dryer in the small laundry room separating her driveway and her kitchen. The cramped space was dark except for the light coming in through the windows at the top of the doors.

She nodded in answer to his question, still a little shaken by the delivery of his warning to the men outside. "Are you?"

"I'm okay as long as you are."

Michonne tried to shake the awkward feeling she now had in his arms. She stepped away from his embrace. "I didn't know you were armed," she said, her voice small and unsure.

 _Obviously, he's carrying a gun,_ she reminded herself. _You see it every time he's in uniform_.

She felt completely ridiculous, but the knowledge that a gun was part of his uniform was very different from seeing it in his hand, aimed at someone else. She never liked guns and now, knowing a gun stole her child from her left her with a mix of emotions.

Up to this point, even facing a mob of angry people, he had always remained patient and non-threatening. The loss of civility in what could only be described as a warcry jolted her to her core. It would be a lie to say that seeing Rick come to her defense did not turn her on as a woman.

The fact that he had the power of life and death in the palm of his hand made her skin hot and her pulse race. Principles that she held as a mother, clashed with the desires she had as a sexual being and she had no idea how to rectify the two.

"I'm always armed," Rick said, taken aback by her tone and the space she put between them as she kicked off her slouch-style boots at the kitchen's threshold, walked in and turned on the light. He watched her shrug off his coat and lay it neatly on the back of one of four kitchen chairs. Respecting the distance she put between them, he stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "Does it bother you? I have a case I can lock it up in, in the car, if it does."

"I don't know how I feel about it." She confessed, immediately set at ease by his clear concern.

"Very few people have an indifferent opinion of guns. Either people feel safe or unsafe around them."

"I guess… it's a little bit of both."

"You're always safe with me. Gun or no gun." His thick southern accent, in soothing round tones not unlike the way he spoke the night of the riot. She realized the benefit of such a powerfully persuasive voice, in his line of work, to de-escalate situations and talk people back from ledges. He was good and it was working.

"I know, Rick. I know." She extended her hands to him. He repeated her action, ditching his boots next to hers and sauntered over on his socked feet. She clasped his large hands in hers. "It must be true because here I am, standing in my house when I thought coming back here would kill me."

She looked around all the things her son left for her to love him by. The little finger smudges low on the fridge. The small bowl of dried up instant oatmeal that had been sitting in the sink since Andre ran out of time eating it and rushed out of the house for the last time.

His drawing of superheros, disproportioned in their signature colors was still atop his placemat on the table. His adorable, yet ill-timed preoccupation with the details of his artwork was the reason he couldn't finish his breakfast. The memory of his tongue curled over his top lip in concentration made his mother smile as she held Rick's hand.

"You have to excuse the mess," She prefaced as they passed through the bright dandelion walls of her living room. A basket of clean laundry accompanied spiced patterned pillows on her pumpkin red sofa. Junkmail, Andre's graded homework and interoffice envelopes topped her shiny wood coffee table. Action figures and miniature battle-crafts were sprinkled over the spotless cream carpet. About a dozen glass jars of exhausted candle wax sat on a built-in shelf and scented the room with light sugary notes.

"I don't see any mess." Rick took in the warmth of her demure, lived-in abode and smiled. He congratulated himself, having imagined her surrounded by similar hues. She exuded a cozy, sunny aura, even through her tears, the first time he met her. "Trust me, I know what a mess looks like. There's a reason I keep my boy's room closed up tight when he ain't there. Who knows what kinda gremlins he's got hiding in there."

"I'm so nervous to meet him," Michonne admitted as she cleared a path, tossing toys into a bin.

"Well, I wish I could say for sure how that'd go…" Rick felt it necessary to warn her. Helping her pick up, he continued, "He's a good kid but since the divorce and his mama's remarryin', he ain't really been a 'model of well-behaved youth'."

"I wouldn't expect him to be. That's a lot for a kid to process. Not to mention the general moodiness of double digit life," she said with a mocking tone, but her sentiment was sincere.

"He used to be such a sweet kid."

"I'm sure he still is, Rick. Trust me. Mike was a grown man and worse than any teenager I've ever met. I understand it might take time for him to warm up to me. I'll give him his space." She thought about her father's overbearing personality. "I wouldn't want him to feel pressured…"

Michonne went quiet as she went deeper into the heart of her home. Lamplight from a doorway up ahead illuminated the dark hall connecting the common areas to the bedrooms. A few more steps and they were at Andre's open door. Michonne stopped and stood there a while. Leaning into Rick's side, tears came as naturally as the tide.

The tangerine fox theme that she chose years ago for her clever little one, now clashed with the patriotic motif he had gradually incorporated in honor of his favorite shield-toting Captain.

"He never turns off his light," Michonne said, stepping inside the brightly lit room. It was true in a metaphorical sense as well. His big white smile was always there to greet her in the morning or refresh her after a grueling day.

His dresser drawers were spilling their contents, as usual, and she stuffed his clothes down with her fingertips and straightened the books, puzzles and games on his shelves. "What am I going to do with all of his stuff," she wondered aloud as she dropped to sit on his tightly tucked bed.

"Do you really have to decide yet," Rick asked from the door waiting for her to give him the okay to enter.

She looked around, her eyes landing on item after item. She remembered how her son had been so excited and thankful to receive just about everything in that room. "Come here. Look at this." She called Rick over showing him the Atlanta Braves baseball cap in her hands. "I know this may be nearly blasphemous to say to you," she chuckled and wiped her eyes, "but Andre never really liked sports much."

Rick smiled at her joke and listened. He put his arm around her pulling her close while her eyes stayed on the red-billed hat her son used to wear. "But he saw this hat right when he was starting to recognize letters and spell his name. He thought the 'A' stood for Andre." They both shared a quiet laugh. "He wanted to wear it everywhere."

"I lost a sheriff hat to Carl that way."

"And now you've lost your coat to me."

"Oh, I'm not getting that back, huh," Rick asked pretending to be surprised. Michonne held back her laughter and shook her head in answer.

Sitting on her baby's bed with him missing from the room, knowing he would never sleep there again seemed even harder than the torment of seeing his lifeless body in the hospital. Though Michonne could understand why Sasha could not bear to stand beside her while she held his tiny hand and cried, Rick's presence was so strong. He felt like a concrete pillar next to her. A support she could cling to when bereavement tried to swallow her up.

"When I was waiting for you to get here, I was thinking, maybe letting go of his things will help me say my final goodbyes at the funeral."

Rick was happy that he'd read and researched how to help her get through her sadness. From what he read, Michonne showed all the characteristics of what professionals call nomadic grief. Described as vacillating on a range of emotions and the desire to keep their lives going in the same measured direction, he understood that in her attempt to find a new normal, she could also find herself regretting hurried decisions.

He knew this, and yet as she looked to him for reassurance, her damp nutmeg eyes reassured him. As much as she had voiced her fears concerning the obstacles between them, her steadfast gaze held a surety that was as unmistakable as his own reflection. She may have dreaded the fray that awaited them, but the man seated beside her was worth it and her expression promised she would be strong.

It didn't seem right to either of them to put Andre's things in the black trash bags they found in her mudroom. Rick left her there, cataloging all the elements and matter of a dearly missed child. He found the plastic storage boxes at the 24 hour Wal-Mart a mile from her house. When he returned to her with the big containers, a Big Kat surprise and a few things he'd need for an overnight stay, he also found her asleep on her living room floor.

"Rick?" She picked her head up from the crook of her arm at the sound of his boots on her kitchen linoleum. "Perfect," she said of his purchases and fought back a yawn more powerful than her chin. Michonne clapped her hands together for a little motivation to overcome her fatigue, "Okay! I have a couple more things in his room to grab…"

"No." Rick said gently and just as gently took the stack of folded clothes from her hands and placed them on the coffee table. "You go get ready for bed, I'll finish packing this up."

...

Not much later, Michonne was showered and dozing in her bed. Her eyes had failed her and still woken up to the reward of Rick's strapping naked form, damp and lit by the lamp light. His head hidden in the drape of a towel. He leaned forward. preoccupied with the package in his hands. She could tell from the pauses between the crinkling sound of plastic that he was trying not to wake her up opening the underwear he'd bought for himself when he was out.

"Sorry," he said, pushing back the towel from his slick curls when her body moved beneath her covers. His sweet blue eyes met hers, "I was tryin' not to wake you."

"And I was trying not to fall asleep." Michonne threw back her silken sheets and reached for him to join her.

He briefly surveyed the peaks and valleys of her soft dark skin and realized a pair of boxers would have him dreadfully overdressed. He tossed the assortment to the chair where he'd neatly hung his clothes. He hastily rubbed the towel over his hair and across his body and joined her with a matching smile.

They wrapped themselves around each other, her face pressed to his solid chest, his legs tangled with hers. They enjoyed a comforting silence, all their muddled private thoughts uncoiling in their minds until they could focus on the beat of their hearts and the calmness of their breaths.

Michonne broke the quiet with a tiny giggle.

"What," Rick wondered, beginning a slow stroke of her arm with his fingertip.

"You're the first man to ever sleep in this bed." That confession made Rick happy in a way that he had to admit to himself was juvenile and possessive, but it felt so good to know that he was the first man she'd trusted this way in years. He didn't respond to what she said. He only smiled above her head. "I feel bad for taking you away from your team."

Rick groaned remembering how their little celebration started to crash and burn just before he left. "I don't know. Thangs ain't go quite like I planned."

"I'm sorry, Rick. I know how much you were looking forward to that. What happened?"

"Nothin' I'd trouble you with. Petty office rivalries."

"Walsh and Dixon come?"

"Dixon was there. Walsh'll need a little more time." It wasn't until then, with Michonne in his arms, that he relieved himself of all the anger he had about Andre's death and truly sympathized with his oldest friend, who was more like a brother.

Maybe he was channeling her extraordinary empathy. Maybe being in her home with her and seeing evidence that, in time, she really would be alright had relaxed him enough to commiserate with someone other than her.

He thought back to the last time he saw Shane. Mentally, he put Shane's nonchalant words about the incident on mute. He remembered the other man's eyes: red rimmed and somewhat swollen. He knew how vain Walsh could be, but his normally clean, crisp uniform was wrinkled and sloppily worn. It dawned on him that Shane was more affected than he'd let on. He realized that maybe radio silence between the two of them was not the best reaction.

From the fog of his thoughts he heard Michonne confess that she hadn't thought about how meeting with her would make them feel. She arrived at the idea that maybe what she thought would be an accepted gesture of goodwill, might make the officers she sought to console feel even more uneasy. Michonne thought about Sasha as well, hoping grief had her best friend misinterpreting her feelings for her.

"Everyone handles pain differently, I guess." Michonne said softly, running her fingers through the soft patch of Rick's dark chest hair.

Rick lifted her chin to stare directly in her eyes. "It feels wrong to say this, but… I'm only concerned about you right now, makin' sure you're okay. The first time I saw you, Michonne… I don't know… it's like I found the rest of my life." His big warm hand smoothed along the contour of her cheek and her jawline, his fingers coming to rest behind her ear as his thumb swept the delicate grooves of her neck.

He spoke to her in the gentlest tones but there was an undercurrent of scorching intensity in every word. "Seein' you in pain makes me feel like I'm fightin' for my life. It's hard to explain."

"I understand." She kissed his lips and closed her eyes, her mind groping for the right words. "It's like I'm trying to be strong but when I'm with you… I can just... rest." She trailed her splayed fingers across his big toned arm. Describing the way he gave her peace, ripened her desire for him without warning. She felt the coolness of her arousal slick between her thighs.

"Like, when I'm holding you," she pulled him closer to her . "I'm closer to myself than I've ever been. Like… I'm strong when I'm with you because I don't need to be. Does that make any sense," she asked through a faint breath as she brought his hand from her neck and pulled it down to cup her dewy sex.

"I don't know if it makes sense to anybody else," Rick admitted dizzily, sliding two fingers past her plush folds, "but I understand."

He gently found his way inside her. His thick fingers caressed by the tight slippery satin of her walls made him lift himself on his elbow to better see her gorgeous face respond to every curling dip. She inhaled sharply at his expertise.

"God, Michonne, you're so beautiful." He leaned in to her ear, funneling his deep country drawl to ripple under her skin. "Me and you bein' together, like this… right now… bein' in love... maybe that doesn't make sense…" Rick said as his mouth watered from the sopping sounds and sweet scent of her juices, "but the two of us, we understand."

Her peaked and sensitive nipples were being grazed ever so slightly by his warm bare-chested bulk as he attacked her throat greedily, pressing her into the pillows with his welcome weight. Michonne pulled at him, her body begging to be possessed by him completely.

"You want me, Michonne?"

She had never had her spirit nourished like this before. She felt as rich as the dark brown earth after a downpour, tingling and buzzing with life and new things. She tried to dismiss the bounty of Rick's affections. She told herself the timing was wrong and that the world wasn't right for her to find passion of this calibre. Now that she'd allowed herself a headlong dive into this man's big heart, however, she was dug in like a tick.

"Yes. Make love to me, Rick. Tell me..." Michonne whimpered through her strained lungs while Rick rapaciously sucked her pear-shaped breasts, one then the other, swirling the tip of his tongue around her tightened nipple."Tell me I'll belong to you… forever."

"Oh, you're mine…" he said confidently, rolling himself between her open inviting thighs. She was so soft beneath him, so perfectly primed and willing to let him have his way. He pushed her legs apart and up as he went in the opposite direction, stalking her delicious center like something wild and nocturnal. "You're mine and I'm yours. Nothin' and no one can change that."

The quivering skin of her abdomen, her legs wound tight, her spine arching into the mattress and then her tailbone jerking and lifting away, spurred him on to get to work. The tendons and veins in his arms sprang to life under his fair, soap-scented skin as he wrangled her still and coated his face with her heady translucent puddle. His fingers clamped down, dominating the swell of her thighs. He lapped at her like a big cat in a jungle stream, eyes closed as he relished the taste.

"Oh god, Rick."

Michonne rolled her eyes closed as well, crushing them shut tighter and tighter. The pleasure virtually rendering her blind when the suction from his lips and tongue on her trembling bud began to pull her apart. Overwhelmed and in a tizzy, she yanked his hair, redepositing his attentions lower to the pearly gates of his own personal heaven.

Not missing a beat, he unfurled his tongue long, thick and hot and immediately she bucked against his face with fervor. She heard him moan from her manic grip of his mane and let him go with a bashful apology.

"Don't be sorry," he said, rising to his knees and wiping a hand over his glistening nose and beard. "You can't break me." A grin rose from his plump lips to his eyes as he kissed her ankle and laid it on his shoulder. "Hold on as tight as you need to." Setting up the heaviness of his girth at the drenched entrance to her throbbing canal, he rubbed himself all along her most delicate parts.

The coolness of his desire dripping from his engorged member mixed with the sticky nectar he'd conjured out of her. He watched as her features went slack with hungry anticipation and the enjoyment she received from just the tip of him probing and rolling insistently over the ruffles and pleats God designed. "Be as loud as you need to be… as long as you take as good as you give."

He invaded in earnest now, hard like steel and hot like lead. Slowly filling her up. Slowly making her lose any presence of mind.

"Oh, fuck…" he abruptly declared on a shuddering moan as the constricting slickness of her ignited every nerve ending in his body.

The piercing pitch of the fire alarm jerked Michonne and Rick awake. A black torrent of smoke rushed into the covering the ceiling and and quickly burning their eyes and throats. Michonne scrambled to get her bearings.

Was she asleep? She gasped in horror, shocked by the nightmarish scene and immediately began choking on all the soot falling from the air.

"Michonne!" Rick thudded to the floor, pulling her out of bed with him. He pushed her lower to the rug beneath them, covering her with his body. "What the fuck," he said to himself as he looked around for answers and a route of escape.

He snatched his t-shirt off the chair and doused it with the glass of water he'd brought back to bed after working up a thirst. Quickly but calmly, he placed the wet cotton in her hand and brought it to her mouth and nose. He then grabbed the blanket off the bed and threw it over his back, covering them both.

He made for the ground floor window on the other side of the room. Michonne, however, resisted. Still coughing violently, she tried to clamber across the floorboards to her bedroom door.

"No, Michonne. NO!" Rick screamed over the constant din of the alarm, pulling her back.

"Andre's things," she croaked back and tried once again to squirm from his grasp. "Let me go, Rick! My baby's things! Let me go!" His burning eyes quickly shot to the door, where there was clearly danger on the other side. "They'll be nothing left! Let me go. They're going to burn and there'll be nothing left!"

For a split second he thought about risking it and going through it to try and retrieve at least some of the things they had packed. He worried, though, that in her hysterical state, she might follow him. Or worse- a backdraft, sucking flames into the only room he was sure they could make it out of unscathed.

"We have to get out of here, Michonne. That way ain't safe. Come on." His voice was raised but he spoke as measured as he could as he dragged her screaming, fighting frame to the window.

He stood about halfway up, managing to hold onto her and slide the panel of laminated glass open. Once she felt the cool outdoor air on her skin, she stopped struggling and turned her face to the night beyond the walls of her home. One-handed, he pitched their shoes and blanket into the darkness.

He pulled her to him with urgency as the smoke billowed out into the sky. "Come on, baby. We gotta go. We gotta leave."

Michonne looked back into the room. The orange-red glow now bled through the cracks around the door's edges told her there was nothing beyond it to salvage. She let out a painful cry of frustration but allowed him to scoop her up and lower her feet first onto the ground.

She looked up at him as he let her arms go and her wet dark eyes nearly broke his heart. Michonne screamed his name as he disappeared from the window. Rick heard her screams as he crossed the suffocating room and opened the door to the lick of furious flames. Jumping and reaching for the ledge, she tried to pull herself back up into the window but her fingertips slipped with every strained attempt.

Inside, the heat was so intense and the inferno sucked all the oxygen from the air, leaving only smoke to breathe. A few feet in front of him, Rick found what he was looking for on the floor of Andre's room. He grabbed it and made his way back across the hall back to the open window.

His eyes bulged and his heart dropped when he saw her struggling in her flower bed with a man dressed in black.

"Michonne!" Rick roared and the man on the ground let out his own stinging shriek when the tiny woman he was trying to assault fought back, kicking and gouging his eyes. The man pushed her away and took off toward the alley behind her house. Barefoot, Rick gave chase and tackled the unknown man with a brutal thud to the cold, hard earth.

Michonne called after him. Her breaths so quick and shallow, she made almost no sound when she screamed for help. She hoped the neighbors would come running or at least call the authorities. For her part, she was spent. Tired, terrified and utterly paralyzed by shock and fear.

Her eyes burned and blurred as she tried to stand and follow the sound of frantic profanities coming from Rick and the unfamiliar voice. Then she saw why he went back inside. A few inches away, her son's red-billed Braves cap lay peacefully in the soil amid the chaos.

A warm hand on her shoulder, sent a shiver up her spine and she went wild, kicking and throwing fists.

"Miss August!" Dale tried to evade her blows and calm her hysteria. "I'm not trying to hurt you. Are you okay?"

Her eyes strained to focus on the older man with a concerned look under his khaki bucket hat. Just beyond him, his assistant was hurriedly hoisting the camera onto his shoulder. Their vulture-like rush to her calamity boiled her blood, but she felt relieved that she and Rick weren't there alone. She turned her attention back to Rick.

Her sheriff scuffled with the man for advantage, until Rick found himself atop the stranger. His fists connecting with a gruesome rattling of the other man's skull until he stopped struggling and Rick was winded and wheezing, still affected by his exposure to the smoke. Catching his breath, he stood over the limp body on the dead grass.

Unable to make out a face in the dark, he began dragging the man, past a trailing Michonne, up to the street. The sheriff flung the half-conscious assumed arsonists in the middle of the road, under the street light's glow.

He demanded with a beastly snarl, "Tell me who you are!" His hand twitched to reach for is gun, but he'd left it inside. He grabbed the man by his shirt again, bringing himself intrusively into the blood splattered face of the blond, long-haired enemy. "Talk!" He punched the man again, squarely in the nose and spoke through clenched teeth, "Or I swear to God I'll leave your face a bag of broken bones."


	15. Chapter 15: Everyone's Got A Job to Do

Everyone's Got A Job to Do

Michonne sat huddled over, shivering and staring at the faux wood office table top where various police forms sat in neat little piles. Detective Amanda Shepherd used her most gentle voice as she asked the bruised and preyed upon woman to go through her statement again. One of only three women in the department, including the Captain, Shepherd was sent in purposely to set the victim at ease. Marvin Franco accompanied her for the same reason. The captain was sure his darker skin and good looks would get Michonne to open up more.

"Rick… I mean, Sheriff Grimes, he got me out."

"How did you exit the house?" Amanda asked for the second time.

"I told you. He… he…" Michonne stuttered, reliving the horror she felt being lowered to the frozen ground in nothing but a t-shirt as the smoke burned her eyes, nearly blinding her. It turned her stomach. "The sheriff lowered me out my bedroom window. I told you all this already!"

Michonne was sweaty from the massive charge of adrenaline that had coursed through her bloodstream and filthy from her struggle under the hands of her unknown assailant. The donated clothes the department clerk had given her from a crumpled cardboard box kept her covered and warm, but felt itchy and weird against her skin. Random involuntary jolts of panic burst through her and she was exhausted from her body's constant state of high alert. She was starting to fray at the edges.

Detective Franco stilled his pen and looked into her tired, frightened eyes. "Yes, ma'am, Miss August. You did. But if you would just indulge us a little longer, sometimes asking the same questions gives us valuable additional information."

"I'm sorry, Ms. August." Amanda agreed, "Just a few more questions and we'll be done."

"Okay. I'm sorry." Michonne thought of Rick and how he must use the same tactics in interviews. She felt bad for snapping at the officers. She continued, more calmly and succinctly, "I was screaming for Rick under my window. Then I got sick. I became dizzy and I threw up next to a tree in my backyard. The next thing I know, someone slammed my face against the tree and held me there."

"And you didn't see the person who attacked you? You didn't get a look at his face?"

"Not at first. He attacked me from behind. I couldn't turn my head and it was dark."

Franco added, "And what, if anything, did the attacker say to you?"

"He told me to stop."

"Were you struggling?"

"Not at that point. I was scared out of my mind. My house was on fire. My… Rick was still inside and out of nowhere I'm being attacked," she breathlessly explained. "I was hyperventilating. I was frozen."

"So what do you think he meant? Your attacker?" Amanda queried, "Stop what, exactly?"

"He just told me to stop or I wouldn't make it to my son's funeral. I asked him what he was talking about and he told me that I was dumb enough without playing dumb too."

Michonne paused. She looked like she would be sick again as she remembered what else the cologne drenched assailant whispered in her ear.

"Miss August, I know this isn't easy but please don't leave anything out," Detective Shepherd encouraged her.

"He said…" Michonne swallowed, "He pressed his body against mine and grabbed my… my…"

"It's okay, Miss August," Franco promised. "Did he touch you in a sexually inappropriate way?"

Michonne squeezed her eyes shut, issuing running teardrops over her smudged cheeks. She nodded grateful that the detective seemed to understand how uncomfortable this was for her. She watched her hands squeeze and twist nervously, one over the other, under the table.

"He said that if I want to act like a silly little... food stamp monkey…He said he would fuck me silly like one." She could barely get the words off of her tongue before her reddened eyes filled with fresh tears.

Both detectives sat silenced, momentarily too disgusted to speak. Michonne wiped her eyes and sat up straight. "I went limp and he let me go and laughed." Her emotions changed. She remembered the moment when she raged like she never had in her life. Like a switch was flipped and her instinct to freeze broke open, unleashing the fight of a rabid animal in the wild. Her lip quivered with anger, "And that's when I tried to take his fucking head off."

...

When Franco and Shepherd finished up with their 'thank yous' and promises that she was safe, a familiar face entered the room.

Maggie was moonlighting as an advocate for battered women. She couldn't believe it when she finally got to the station and Michonne's name was on the file handed to her.

"Miss August, I don't know if you remember me…"

"I do," Michonne offered a sweet smile, happy to see her. "Mrs. Rhee… Maggie. Please, call me Michonne."

She would never forget how kind she was the night Andre died. Other than her job, there was nothing in particular that Michonne could recall the young, thin brunette doing for her. Still her professionalism and attentive demeanor made her feel like the county hospital liaison had things under control.

Maggie had called and left a few voicemails to follow up with Michonne. She hadn't been in the mood to answer those calls but somehow they had made her pain feel acknowledged by the world at large. When Michonne found out Rick was her brother, Maggie's kind disposition made all the sense in the world.

Knowing his sister had stopped Rick from making a critical mistake with Philip Blake, only fostered her fondness for the soft-spoken social worker. But when he told her that she was a friend of Andrea Mitchell's, that fondness soured away to some extent.

Still, from Rick's own words, she couldn't deny that Maggie also loved the man she loved. He loved his baby sister too, despite her constant butting into his life. The same way she loved Sasha despite her overbearing extremes. Michonne decided that it also made sense to forgive her for her lapse in judgement about her brother's love life.

Besides, here she was, again, eager to help if she could.

Maggie looked like a Target commercial in her high-top zebra print sneakers under her cuffed corduroys and striped red sweater, her single low ponytail swinging between her shoulder blades. Those sympathetic eyes of hers immediately sweetened the bitter taste in Michonne's mouth about her associations.

Maggie descended upon her with a genuinely caring hug, "I'm so sorry we keep meetin' under these circumstances. I hope you don't mind me checkin' on you here."

"No. I appreciate it."

"I cannot imagine the ordeal you went through tonight. I'm so glad you and Rick are okay. Thank God you weren't by yourself," Maggie heard herself say. She meant it.

The scratches and welts on Michonne's pretty dark skin proved just how dangerous the situation had been, even with a trained officer there. It made her heart sink to think what would have happened to this woman if she had been alone. She pursed her lips. "I'm mad as hell that they did this to you!"

Michonne noticed Maggie clenched her fists at her sides, just like Rick was prone to do when he was angry. His little sister was a lot less threatening, but no less serious.

"So is your brother," Michonne acknowledged. The image of him crashing his fist over and over again into the face of the man who'd attacked her unsettled her terribly. "Maggie, Rick told me about the night you prayed for him," she said quietly and paused to let Maggie comprehend.

Recognition dawned across Maggie's fair features and her eyes widened with shock that Rick would share that with a woman she considered a stranger. "He told you about that?"

"Yes. You know it was a very dark time for him and I don't want him sinking back into that darkness because of all this. You know him better than I do. Will you… please… just let me know if he seems to be… sinking?"

Rick disclosing his lowest point to Michonne had nearly knocked the wind out of Maggie. Now, she felt completely bowled over at this battered and bereaved woman's care and concern for her brother, especially in the midst of her own Job-like tribulation. After his marriage fell apart, she always wanted Rick to find a woman who was the opposite of Lori. Someone who could prop him up when he needed support.

But she misread Andrea's hard edge and tenacity. Michonne's strength was unmistakable and parallel to that strength, Maggie recognized the restfulness that must have attracted her brother. There was none of the frail blankness that was in Lori. There was none of the crass rockiness that came along with Andrea.

Maggie tightened her mouth and wrinkled her chin as emotion welled inside her. She nodded to Michonne, satisfied by her sudden epiphany, "Of course. I will."

...

"So we have two perps in custody." Captain Lerner informed Rick. "The guy who attacked Miss August wasn't the guy who set the fire."

Rick only knew Dawn Lerner as far as a passing hello could take him. But even from those brief encounters, he could tell she was in over her head. Which always disappointed him since he had hoped her appointment as captain would shake up the antiquated patriarchy that ran almost every corner of local government. As smart as she was, Rick could tell she was more hungry for recognition from the powers that be than she was for any government refinement.

"Who the fuck are these guys?" Deputy Ford demanded, stepping in front of his anxious boss.

T-Dog answered, "A couple of fuckin' cowards."

Carol, T-Dog and Abraham hurried to Rick's side when news of the fire hit their station. The party at the Ford's house, for once, ended at a reasonable hour. The subtraction of Rick and the addition of Merle took the celebrants out of their merry mood. Carol was in her curlers when Tara called and told her. Without delay, she made her way to Captain Lerner's jurisdiction and stood in solidarity with her sheriff.

Dawn nodded over to the scraggly man sitting in booking, "The ugly blond… we know him. Dwight Barlow. He's got a record of arson & robbery. Found him hiding in her neighbor's dumpster… like the trash we all know him to be." He had the scars to prove that he wasn't particularly good at his life of crime. Rick looked over at the melted, sulking degenerate and seethed.

The Captain redirected his attention to the window of another interrogation room and explained further, "The pretty blond over there… Well, he used to be prettier," Lerner said, throwing an accusing eye to Rick.

She saw the perp when he first came in and even through the streams of blood criss-crossing his face, she could see he was a decent-looking guy. Now, his looks matched what he truly was, a monster. After hours of fruitless questioning, the man's freshly pummeled face had become swollen and discolored. He could barely open his eyes thanks to the sheriff.

"He doesn't have any identification on him and he's not in our system. But we got prints running," the captain informed the concerned parties.

Rick didn't know which man he wanted to eviscerate first. The one who set the woman he loves house ablaze, snatching every tangible thing she owned away in one fell swoop or the one who had the audacity to put a single slimy finger on his angel. He was worried about how and why these two ended up in Michonne's world.

Unfortunately for them, Rick pondered with malice, They just fell ass-backwards into my world too. He was going to make them regret it.

"So what are they sayin'?"

"Besides the snarky remarks from the pretty bloody blond, they don't say much. Dwight's never been much of a talker, though."

"Well, obviously this thang was premeditated," Rick said bluntly. "We need their phone records to see who else they've been in contact with and…"

"Sheriff Grimes," Dawn interrupted, "We are very well aware of how to handle an investigation."

"Yes, ma'am. I know you are." Rick simmered. "I used to work a city beat. I know you guys are a whole helluva lot busier than we are in the sticks of King County. Thought maybe we could get more ground covered if we pool our resources," he suggested in his most non-threatening manner. "They mentioned her son's funeral. They know who she is. I just want to make sure she's safe and the faster we figure out motive, the faster we can ensure that."

"Look, Sheriff. I appreciate your offer. Everyone's got a job to do here," Dawn said. She took a dig at his department, "We're gonna do ours… and we're gonna do it right. Besides, I think your lady needs you more than we do."

The captain directed Rick's attention back to Michonne. She was sitting in the same spot with his sister right beside her. Both their heads bowed, speaking to each other in hushed tones. His heart went out to her.

Thank God, Maggie is here right now, Rick thought. There wasn't another soul he'd be willing to entrust his lady to in such a fragile state.

He knew Maggie would put her personal feelings about their relationship to side and do her job.

He was hoping that his sister would forego reprising her song and dance objecting to his involvement with Michonne, but he was ready to shut her arguments down and defend their love if necessary. His focus drifted momentarily as he mentally compiled all the reasons they could make it work. The counted ways of their love was interrupted.

"You two are together, right," Dawn asked smugly.

Rick couldn't have been prouder to say yes. Still, he hesitated to answer not wanting their relationship to damper the urgency of the investigation.

"No need to deny it, I'd venture to say that you're currently on a countdown before that reporter tells the whole world." Dawn condescended, "You might want to get ahead of that, if you can. Besides, I'd rather not be linked to KC in the current climate. You're not anybody's favorite right now. I'd just as soon keep a safe distance from your house."

...

Michonne made her way slowly towards Rick who stood in the doorway of the interrogation room. His tall sturdy frame was all she wanted right now. He wrapped her up in his arms, running his hands over her back.

He felt her shake against him and held her tighter waiting for her to let loose those inevitable sobs. Instead of tears, though, she laughed. It was a weak laugh, but he took note of it as she squeezed him back.

"What's funny?"

She shook her head as her giggles trailed off. Taking a moment to gather herself, she threw her head back to look up at him with an emerging smile and teary eyes. "I hope some of your "lucky bad luck" rubs off on me, that's all."

His handsome face was marred here and there from his harrowing run back into her burning house and the one-sided rumble that followed. Rick's blue eyes blazed into her own. He gave her a hesitant smile and pulled her back against his chest. "I promise, everything's gonna be alright."

"It has to be," she agreed through a light sarcastic chuckle. "I've got no home and no family to take me in. Things can only get better from here."

"Hey," he called to her firmly, bringing her eyes back to his, "As long as I've got a home, so do you."

"Rick…"

"Listen to me," his hands cradled her face, traces of her attacker's blood still stained his skin, "No matter what happens, I'm in your corner. I'm with you."

She closed her eyes, absorbing the heat of his hands and swimming in the ripples of his oaky twang. He swiped at a tear barrelling down her cheek and tenderly kissed her full lips. She laid her hands on top of his and accepted that affection.

Facing a corner of the pale-lit hallway, Maggie ended the work-related call she had excused herself to take. Another victim of the world's cruelty was waiting for her to come to their aid with her knowledge of agencies and resources that could help get them on their feet again. She turned on a tired sigh and came face to face with the goodness she would always believe existed in the world, no matter how much tragedy she saw.

Her brother was holding Michonne tight, his eyes alight with wholehearted sincerity. It was the look he would give his chubby little sister when they were children and he would take a spanking for her for stealing cookies from their pantry. It was a misty smile that said I love you in the simplest, most raw way.

In her line of work Maggie saw all the time how black women in particular were forgotten. More often than not, they seemed to fall off the face of the earth. Not returning calls. Not showing up for follow up appointments. Not believing anyone really cared. Not trusting anyone to help them without somehow hurting them as well.

She smiled, finally seeing what her brother was so convinced of. Everything Maggie knew about anything told her all this was all happening too fast, but the love and trust between Michonne and her brother was as plain as the nose on her face. It made no sense to cut it off for spite.

Maggie sheepishly interrupted their embrace, "I'm gonna head out now. A mother across town needs an advocate."

"This time of night," Rick asked, worried as he looked at his wristwatch.

"Don't worry. The victim's already at the women's shelter. I'll be safe." Maggie stretched to give her big brother a hug. Her voice was a little shaky remembering that she almost lost him tonight. "I love you. You guys be careful."

...

Rick and Michonne walked out of the station together, him with a protective arm around his woman. When he saw the two members of the press standing next to their broadcast ready news van.

He didn't know whether to thank them or curse them out. The only reason they'd been there to help was because they ignored his direct command to leave Michonne alone.

Rick settled his woman in his truck and put the heat on for her. He made sure she was okay being left alone for a moment. After another comforting kiss, she watched him through the rear window as he walked across the black turf of the parking lot.

"Hey!" Rick called out to Dale and Morales.

The pair looked up from their conversation nervously when they saw Rick approaching.

"Hey, man. We got the right to be here. This precinct is a public government office. We ain't trespassing," Morales jumped to say, expecting another ominous rebuke from the sheriff.

"That footage you got tonight…" Rick did a complete about face. He spoke directly to Dale and tried to be as non-threatening as possible. "You runnin' it?"

"I'm getting it ready for the morning news now." The newsman answered honestly.

"What if doing that puts Ms. August in more danger? You ever think about that?"

Dale objected delicately, "I'm sorry, sheriff. We've all got a job to do and this is mine, however sleazy you may find it. A good amount of what I have recorded is on the public sidewalk and street. No trespassing. And the citizens of this community deserve to know what's happening. They deserve to be able to keep themselves safe too."

Rick grit his teeth, knowing Dale was right. "Well, you don't have permission to show my face… or use my name."

Dale huffed knowing the man who introduced him to the barrel of a gun just hours earlier wouldn't like what he was about to say. "That's fine, Sheriff Grimes. We'll blur your face, you've got that right. But even without your name, you're still KC's sheriff."

The newsman reminded Rick, "And what are you gonna do about all those iPhones that were recording you and Ms. August? That footage has probably already been viewed by hundreds, if not thousands of people just in the time it's taking us to have this conversation. You gonna tell all of them they don't have your permission either?"

King County's top cop didn't have an answer. He strained his fist in anger and walked away recognizing the gripping feeling in his neck that told him he was skirting the edge of self-control.

Dawn was blocking him from the investigation. Another tragedy in Michonne's life was going to be plastered all over the airwaves for the second time in less than two weeks. Instinct told him that would only breed more trouble but he was powerless to do anything about it.

Dale pressed his luck, undeterred, "Sheriff? I know you don't wanna answer no questions… but how would you like some information?" Rick kept his pace back towards his truck. "You wanna keep Ms. August safe? You're gonna wanna hear me out. Trust me."

"Trust you? Why the hell should I trust you? For all I know, you coulda paid this asshole to set fire to her house just to get more press for this interview you're so hard up for. Seen it happen before. Whatever bullshit story you think you're gonna get outta this..."

"Miss August ain't my story, Sheriff Grimes. She's part of it now," Dale admitted, "but my bullshit story started way before she lost her boy. And if this 'bullshit' story don't get told, Miss August'll have plenty company in her misery."

Rick wrinkled his brow and shrank an eye at the newsman. "What d'ya mean?

Morales stepped forward, tired of all the cryptic talk from his partner, "What do you know about the S.O.C.?"

"The Saviors? A bunch of backwards hicks that used to pass out pamphlets full of typos about white power back in the day. They haven't been active for years."

Morales scoffed at Rick's old information and shook his head. "And Negan Jeffries?"

Rick was familiar with the Saviors, however, the name Negan Jeffries failed to ring a bell.

"Who?"

"He's the new director of the Savior's of the Confederate," Morales spoke confidentially, happy to know something the intimidating sheriff didn't.

The precinct parking lot crawled with other reporters and cops that Mr. Horvath would rather not have privy to his conversation. He still needed time to gather more information on his story. For it to have the biggest impact he needed to wait until the time was right. Rick looked to the pair expectantly, unaware of the significance of the leaders name.

"Hey, umm…" Dale reconsidered as he looked around. "This may not be the best place to talk about this. Can we meet somewhere else? I'll show you everything we got."

...

Lori eyed Rick with a sad regard. She knew his stubborn sense of right and wrong was going to be his undoing in this situation. The present climate involving issues of race was thicker than she could ever recall. Not even the childhood memories of Rodney King's beating playing out in grainy images on the news had made things this tense.

Back then, even with the city wide riots in California, the powers that be still maintained a rather tight grip on what the media fed the masses. However, with the might of social media, now everyone had a platform. It scared Lori that the more minorities pushed back against the unfair policies her ex-husband always championed against, the more men like her current husband dug in and reinforced their callous views.

The woman he'd once thought he'd grow old with looked at him with that nauseating pity that began to shade her eyes after Rick got the news Dontaye Evans was found dead in his prison cell. It was a look that only seemed to intensify once Philip demanded she file for divorce.

Her guilt over Judith's paternity test deteriorated the modicum of confidence she had in him to pick himself up and dust himself off. All she could give him were sympathetic smiles along with that contemptible swampy gaze.

She had hoped when they made him sheriff that he'd come out of the funk that her distance and deceit had left on him. Then she heard he was dating Jessie and she was happy for him. But still, whenever they saw each other the guilt of the damage she'd done him struck her hard.

The news of this new relationship baffled her. She still loved Rick dearly, even more so when she compared the purity of Rick's love to the convoluted hollowness of being married to the governor. She felt like it was her fault he was even in this obviously doomed love affair. The urge to help such a good man escape anymore pain was more than she could swallow into silence.

"Rick, I'm sorry. Philip just got back from Washington. He's napping. Waking him is only going to make him more disagreeable."

They stood in the marbled grand vestibule of the governor's mansion. She looked so at home in all the opulence he could never have given her on a cops salary. Right where your mother always thought you should be, Rick reflected for a brief second as he took in the ornate chandelier above them.

His eyes ascended the stately curve of the tall staircase and he briefly entertained the idea of pushing past her, bursting through every door up there until he found the sleeping politician and made him listen to what he had to say.

"How do you even know she was targeted?" Lori asked with and incredulous tone. "They have a motive… or anything?"

With all the turmoil associated with the shooting, Rick had been trying to secure a police presence at Andre's funeral before the fire ever happened. Now that he'd met with Dale and learned about Negan's mad plans, he was on a mission. Of course, he couldn't share any of that with Lori. So he told her just enough.

"Michonne says one of them told her to 'stop'." Rick remembered the woman he loved shivering through her statement to the cops. "He told her to stop or she wouldn't make it to her son's funeral. He was bold enough to threaten a frightened grievin' mother but he ain't opened his mouth to us yet. He's scared of somethin' and it ain't the police. Which means he must be answerable to somebody else. Which means someone put him up to it. Which means this wasn't random and it…"

"Rick. Do you hear yourself? You sound like these nut job conspiracy folks on the internet! I mean, maybe this was gang related."

"Gang related?"

"Yes. The ghetto is a dangerous place."

"The ghetto? What makes you think Miss August lives in the ghetto, Lori?"

His ex-wife dropped her eyes to the floor, immediately sensing by Rick's tone that she was wrong for jumping to that conclusion.

"She lives in the same neighborhood as your aunt." Rick gave her a disapproving glare. "But I guess any place could be the ghetto when you're living like this," he said referring to her lavish home.

"I didn't mean it like…"

Rick took a cleansing breath and decided not to waste his breath trying to connect the dots for his soap opera addicted ex-wife. Instead he laid out the facts. "Look, Lori. You saw the news. These maniacs broke into this woman's house while she slept, burned it to the ground and attacked her! Who knows what would have happened if I hadn't been there."

Irritated that he wouldn't let it go, Lori raised her voice over his, a rare occurrence in Philip Blake's house. "You ever think that maybe that happened because you were there," she asked loudly and looked back over her shoulder fearful that she may wake the governor.

"What? No," Rick replied, a little stunned by the question. "Nobody knew I was there. They couldn't have… and so what if someone did?"

Lori tried to subdue his agitation. Extending her downturned palms, nearly placing a restraining hand on his chest, she softened, "Look. All I'm saying is, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that a relationship between you and this lady would be just the thing to stir up the kind of people who'd do something like this."

Her words seemed to tear through his mind, illuminating the suggestion that he was the one actually putting Michonne in danger. But before he could fully unpack those ramifications, Lori pierced him again, this time right at his heart.

"Honestly, Rick. Philip and I are more concerned about Carl in all this. Maybe you should be too."

"Carl?"

"Well, yeah. It was your girlfriend's house last night, but what if these dangerous people target your house next… while Carl is visiting… while Judith is there? I never wanted to be the type of ex that would…" Lori couldn't find words that wouldn't make her seem heartless, but despite how it sounded, she'd say anything to separate him from this terrible choice. She knew he loved Carl more than anything. If it meant using Carl and his paranoia against him, she would.

"What are you saying, Lori?"

"I just think… if you won't stop seeing her… and if you really think she's in danger, then maybe Carl shouldn't go with you. Maybe you should come here to see him. Philip says it's safer here. The house is always monitored. He has a security detail assigned to him..."

"So you're givin' me an ultimatum?"

Lori sighed. "Not… not an ultimatum…"

"Look. I know Philip, for some bizarre reason," Rick scoffed, "has it out for me. You'd think I was the one screwin' his wife behind his back. I don't know how he's twisted what really happened in that sick head of his.."

"Competition. It's just his character, Rick," Lori lamented her husband's obsession with the sheriff. "A lot of people in his circle respect you. They look down their noses at him… at us… because of what we did to you," she admitted her guilt. "He knows the kids love you more… even his own daughter. That picture she drew of her family… he wouldn't even hang it on the fridge because she put you in it. He can't let things go…"

"But I've let it go. I don't wish no ill on him. I never said a bad word to him or about him."

"Because decency is your character, Rick."

"Whatever games Philip thinks he's playin'... I ain't tryin' to beat him at anythang. I just want him to do his fuckin' job and protect the people he governs like he took an oath to do. Y'all wanted to be together, I didn't try to stop you. Now don't you two go tryin' to stop me from bein' a father to my son." Rick turned the tables on Lori's argument, "Don't let your husband take out his frustration in life on my son… on your kids… or on Ms. August."

Rick repeated what he'd said to the governor in multiple emails, voicemails and messages left with his aide, "She needs an extra show of force at her son's funeral. It's outta my jurisdiction. All Philip has to do is talk to Captain Lerner."

Lori rolled her eyes and crossed her arms displeased that her efforts to deter Rick were not working. She dropped her head back more than slightly peeved as he continued, "Lerner's ambitious. I understand. It's hard bein' a woman in charge of a boys club. She don't wanna ruffle no feathers or appear to be takin' sides when they make what happened about race. Could jeopardize her command. I just need Philip to nudge her in the right direction."

Rick begged, "As a mother, Lori. After all she's been through, the last thing this woman needs is for some racist degenerates to disrespect her son's memory. Please. Whatever you could do to persuade him… You know it's the right thing to do."

* * *

A/N: I swear I'm gonna finish this story, guys. LOL

comewithnattah


	16. Chapter 16: Ketamine American Dreams

**Ketamine American Dreams**

Ketamine- a medication that is used to induce loss of consciousness.

The drug can make a person feel detached from sensations and surroundings. It is infrequently used in anesthesia because of the unpleasant experiences that sometimes occur on emergence from anesthesia, which include vivid dreaming, extracorporeal experiences, and illusions.

* * *

Michonne walked past the hood entrepreneur displaying his wares from the back of his cargo van. From the open hatch doors hung t-shirts and hoodies. It was a usual sight in the city- a black man's hustle. The American dream for him meant a constant struggle, but at least he didn't have to bend over backwards in the corporate rat race. The old white men who held sway there didn't want him anyway.

It reminded her how Mr. Stevens used to let Tyreese work on his ice cream truck. Mr. Stevens was a rare breed, always uplifting his community and taking a special interest in the young black men. When Mr. William's left Tyreese and Sasha and their mom for a brand new family that didn't even belong to him, Tyreese took it upon himself to become the man of the house.

It should never have been his job and the irony was how good he was at being a provider, a protector. He never let go of that role. Sasha was always strong-willed and determined, but so was Tyreese, only in a more nurturing way. Tyreese used to be so proud when he could take her and Sasha to the movies with his own money.

He would take Andre too when he got old enough so she and Sasha could have a wine night. Following in Mr. Stevens footsteps, Tyreese would let Andre help him plant seeds in his greenhouse and pay him a few dollars. "Buy something for mama," he'd always remind the impressionable child.

"How you doing, Miss lady," The stocky salesman with a golden front tooth acknowledged her with a flirty tone. "One tee for ten, two for eighteen."

Michonne smiled and nodded at the stranger who seemed to be selling everything from socks to soap out of his van. Her mood lifted because of happy memories, she decided to take a closer look at the items for sale with a mind to buy something in support of the middle-aged man's grind.

But her smile quickly faded when she noticed the "Free Mike Lancey" slogan on a few shirts.

Her heart rate immediately skyrocketed and she just stood there staring. Directly under the call to release her irresponsible ex, there was a picture of him and Andre. Mike looked like the prototype for the dedication of black fatherhood. As if he bore no fault.

She remembered when that picture on the shirt was taken. It was like pulling teeth to get Mike to come. That was back when she tried to make co-parenting work by parenting Mike as well. She gave it a try anyway, for her baby, who wanted his daddy to be there for family pictures.

It was weird for her to see the picture on merchandise, with the mournful adage so commonplace in the black community,

 **Rest in Peace Lil' Andre**

And it never dawned on her that people might see Mike as a victim in all this.

That was always what he wanted. To be coddled. But deeper than that, she had to admit, he wanted to be acknowledged. A simple acknowledgement of his existence. What ordinary black man got that? Unless he's a baller, a mogul, an activist... _Who stands up for black men when they're knocked down or mistreated_ , Michonne asked herself in all honesty. _It happens all the time and no one bats an eye._

Micheal always had moves to make, but he was trying to help his mother. Though his methods of assisting her arguably did her more harm than good, he tried.

He wanted to be praised in the streets, at work, in bed. But Michonne never had much praise to give him once she got through the routine of faking an orgasm. After their breakup he went from woman to woman on a quest to prove his manhood.

Rick confessed that he had done something similar after his divorce. Though he tried his best to explain the typical male need for affirmation and respect, Michonne countered with all the reasons he deserved the kudos she gave him. She watched him blush at her compliments and swept his hair from his face and added the humble red shade of his ears to the list.

 _Maybe I should've stroked Mike's ego a bit more,_ she thought now, looking at his name spelled out in white on the black cotton shirt. But the face of her angel beat back any sympathy creeping deep in her heart for Mike.

"I'm donating everything I make from those shirts to Mike Lancey's defense fund," the peddler informed Michonne proudly when he saw her attention fixed on the shirts. "Gotta help a brother out. You down for the cause?"

It took a few seconds before a stunned Michonne answered back on a stutter, "No… I mean… I… Sorry. Not today."

She picked up her pace. Double-timing her way to the doors of Tonya's Salon, she felt chased by the unknown men who took bullets or beatings on these corners and succumbed to their wounds. She always saw them but she never took the time to see them with any understanding.

She had never been one to frequent the hangout spots of any hood. Her daddy forbade it. She could still feel the heat of the summer sun, taste the popsicle on her tongue and hear his deep commanding voice as she held his hand on a walk from the corner store.

He would say,

 _"A street nigger is the lowest a black man can be. You know they made us stand in chains, packed like sardines in the bowels of ships when they brought us from our land. They made us stand in chains on the auction block, when they ripped us from our families. They made us stand on the backs of mules with a noose around our necks before they hung us from the trees. And these young niggers… still in chains… still ready to swing… they get up in the morning, breathing the air God gave them and they choose to stand on a corner. Ain't no mother crueler than the streets. She ain't got no love for her own."_

Her daddy's slow-rolling cadence, like a crescendo of thunder building behind the clouds, was usually declaring some sort of condemnation. He was notoriously judgemental, and though she never wanted to adopt that trait, being obligated to be 'down for the cause' made her feel bitterly indignant.

Michonne gave herself what felt like a flimsy excuse, I gave what I could. I gave my heart, my body, my damn child. It wasn't my job to save these grown ass men. She stood in the doorway of the salon trying to compose herself. She unwrapped her scarf from her neck and greedily sucked in the crisp air.

Sasha's words bubbled up into her mind. "He doesn't know what it's like for us."

Those words were meant to disqualify Rick, but Mike never knew what it was like for her either. The men who swarmed the corners, making her feel uncomfortable with their piercing eyes and demeaning "compliments", they didn't know what it was like. Her daddy, with all he thought he knew, didn't know what it was like. Yes, they had black mothers, black sisters, black wives. But they would never know.

She looked back over her shoulder at the man and his van as he lit a Black and Mild cigar. She wished him well. She wished them all well, even Mike. She pushed into the heated shop, never more aware of the truth of her father's words, Ain't no mother crueler than the streets.

"Hey, Chonnie. Girl, how you been?" Her hairdresser, Tonya welcomed her into her shop with a bright and dimpled, gap-tooth smile as Michonne removed her coat. "Come on over here. Let's get you in the bowl."

Michonne and Tonya were more acquaintances than friends, never meeting for anything other than hair appointments. Still they were always happy to see each other and enjoyed easy conversation. They had known each other for years, since Michonne first started growing her locs after Andre was born.

Tonya sat Michonne in the salon chair and pulled her hair from her high ponytail, inspecting the roots and looking for inspiration for the updo her client requested. "Girl this new growth is out of control. I know you're busy but you gotta get in here at least every month. Your hair grows too damn fast."

Tonya fussed not letting Michonne get a word in, as usual. "I mean your hair is a mess," she quirked her brow, inspecting Michonne more closely, "but you do have a glow. Child, please tell me you're getting your hair done because you got a date… done found yourself a boo, huh?… Somebody treating you good. I can tell."

Michonne didn't answer. She was just trying to keep up with Tonya's excited ramble. The one other patron in the shop, sat under the hair dryer and eyed Michonne curiously trying to establish why the newcomer looked so familiar to her.

"That's a question, Chonnie. You going on a date?"

Michonne was puzzled by the question as she leaned back into the sink for her shampoo. "No. The funeral," she said with a crumpled brow.

Tonya let Michonne's hair fall back around her face and stood back to make eye contact. She was genuinely affected. Her face creased with worry, her hand splayed across her chest. "Girl, who died?"

The woman under the dryer, saw Tonya's dramatic reaction and inconspicuously turned the machine off to hear what was being said.

"My son, Tonya. Andre was killed," Michonne answered with a blink.

The young woman eavesdropping blew her cover when she let out an audible gasp. "Andre August-Lancey? That was your son? I knew you looked familiar."

"How you know about it, Sheena." Tonya went from shock to sadness to confusion.

"It's been all over the news, Tonya. You didn't hear about what happened at Robinson Park? And you just had a fire at your house too, didn't you," Sheena asked Michonne trying to substantiate news reports she'd heard.

Tonya threw her arms around Michonne. "Oh my god. Chonnie!"

Michonne was smothered by her hug but, oddly enough, it was her grief squeezing her so tightly she could hardly let out a breath to accept it. She had gone through so much in these last few days. Still in the midst of that heartache she could feel a budding new heart growing and glowing in the ruins of her old one.

Feeling loved by Rick had shown her, in small ways, that she could love herself better. And so, while she was appreciative of Tonya's care and concern, she was not the crumbling ash she could've been. She felt more like a heated stone, smooth and warm.

Sheena shook her head. "I don't know how you're hanging in there, girl. God must be covering you with both hands."

"I'm so sorry." Tonya felt embarrassed now. "And I'm over here talking about some damn man, when I'm sure that's the last thing on your mind."

"I know it must piss you off, people trying to say you and that white guy are a thing." Sheena folded her arms at her belly with a huff. "The media takes shit and just runs with it."

Tonya's face went sour. "What white guy?"

"A cop. A redneck sheriff from some little county… Tonya, you seriously ain't heard about none of this?"

"No, girl. I can't watch the news. It's too depressing. After they elected Trump, I been sticking with my Steve Harvey and any movie with Denzel," Tonya said pointing to the TV on the wall where a cocky Denzel Washington swaggered across the screen flashing a badge.

"Why they trying to put you with a white man anyway?"

"As if it wasn't enough that they got her baby daddy in jail on some bullshit," Sheena said, rolling her eyes. "You know how they do our brothers. Make them criminals while anybody white is a hero."

Michonne just listened at the two women go back and forth with each other. One, completely ignorant of everything that had happened. The other, sharing completely false information that she had either heard or made up herself.

She decided to tune them out. Closing her eyes she enjoyed the white noise of the spray from the washbowl's hose. The warm water made her locs heavier and she sank into the moment's comfort. Tonya's nails scratched a therapeutic trail across her scalp and the luscious botanic aroma of the lather kept pushing her to the edge of slumber.

Tonya rang out the length of Michonne's hair with a strong twist. She wrapped her dripping tresses in a large towel and sat her up in the same motion. When the soft white blindfold fell away, her eyes met Sasha's.

Her estranged friend sat across the room next to Sheena. With everything going on, Michonne had completely forgotten that Sasha made this appointment for them both. When they decided to go together, Sasha was still her rock.

Immediately, Michonne remembered being curled up in Sasha's guest bedroom. Her bestie cuddled up with her as the 'big spoon'. Sasha was still trying to convince her to trust Andrea Mitchell and move forward with her lawsuit against Rick's department.

 _"We'll go to Tonya before the funeral. You get retwisted," Sasha spoke against her ear in an encouraging tone. She moved the arm she had curved around Michonne's waist and swept her fingers over the darker beauty's neck. She pulled away the long cord-like locs cascading her shoulders and gathered up as many as she could get in her hand._

 _"You should have her put it up. Show off those beautiful cheekbones," Sasha gave a sweet half giggle._

 _She laid a kiss on the apple of Michonne's cheek. "I'll make us an appointment. I think I'll straighten this afro. I need to be a little less Erykah Badu and a little more Alicia Keys for the cameras. Show America that not all black women are bonnett-wearing baby mamas."_

 _"The cameras? You think there'll be camera's there?"_

 _"Of course. Andrea's gonna see to it."_

 _Michonne rolled onto her back to look Sasha in the face. "But why? What's worth reporting at the funeral?"_

 _"The impact of Peanut's death on the community, Chonnie. People need to see what those bullets did to him. They need to walk past his casket and see!"_

 _"But what about me, Sasha?" Michonne sat up in frustration. "Maybe I don't want to see! It was hard enough when I had to identify him. Don't you remember that?"_

 _Sasha jumped attentively to her knees, facing her friend and lovingly cupped her face. "Don't worry, Chonnie. I'll be with you. We'll get through it together."_

 _Michonne wanted to tell her that she didn't believe her. She wanted to remind her that it was her who broke down on the other side of that window into the morgue. She wanted to tell her not to forget how she stood outside that hospital room and left her to sit, alone, by his bedside. Until Rick Grimes came and stood beside her._

 _Michonne always believed Sasha's intentions were good. Since they were teenagers she had always fought for her. But for all her tough talk and promises, Sasha was crumbling when Michonne needed her most._

 _The inkling of a revelation flit across Michonne's mind._

 _Maybe Sasha only fought for her back then because she wanted someone to fight. Someone to catch all the hurt feelings she'd been buried under from her daddy leaving. As the nightstand's soft light shined across her face, there was the same kind of panicked intensity in her eyes that surfaced whenever she heard the name Robbie Vogt. Maybe she was in this fight for selfish reasons too._

 _Maybe._

 _"You could be like Mamie Till, Chonnie," Sasha said inspired._

 _When Sasha was small she learned about the infamous history of Mississippi. The black and white image of the slaughtered 14 year old Emmett Till, swollen and pale in his casket, horrified her. The two white men who were acquitted of his murder, later admitted to the crime and escaped consequences under the laws of double jeopardy._

 _Beyond her horror, though, Sasha had always regarded young Emmett's mother as a hero. Mamie Till's defiance of the commonplace injustice visited upon her people was the epitome of strength. With all that Michonne had accomplished earning her degree as a single mother and without her parents, Sasha was convinced Michonne could be just as formidable._

 _She moved in closer, breaching Michonne's personal space. The smell of the bottle of wine they'd shared still heavy on her tongue. She declared with a proud smile and tender whisper, "You're the poster child for a strong black woman. Your face… your pretty dark skin. Those breathtaking eyes… eyes that you just get lost in. The mother of a revolution. We have to make sure that Andre is the last innocent child lost to this kind of brutality."_

 _Michonne deflated with a weary sigh. "If that were possible, Sasha, Emmit would have been the last child lost. I'm tired of cameras and I'm not Mamie Till." She scoffed, "Mother of a revolution? I'm not a mother at all anymore. I'm not a wife. I'm not a daughter. I'm not anything. Not anymore."_

 _"How can you say that?" Sasha's fingertips brushed away the tears on her friend's face. "How can you even think that? You're never nothing." Their eyes closed and their foreheads touched. "Not to me. You're everything to me."_

 _Sasha leaned in closer and Michonne followed suit. Pulling her dear friend into a hug, Michonne's lips narrowly missed Sasha's advance. She paid no attention to Sasha's heavy breathing, her flushed complexion. And though they were almost chest to chest, Michonne discounted Sasha's racing heart as well._

 _Resting her chin on her shoulder, Michonne spoke in gratitude, "What would I do without you, Sash?"_

 _Now, Sasha's body went slack against Michonne, completely taxed from holding in her mounting desire for what was so close and yet so far. Sasha closed her eyes tighter and held her breath against so much dissatisfaction. She forced out a faint chuckle, "You'd probably be settling for some handsome mama's boy scrub…"_

 _Even though the pain of losing Andre was fresh, Michonne managed a smile at her joke._

Even though the pain of losing her friend was fresh, Michonne managed to smile at her friend now as water from her shampoo dripped down her neck. But Sasha averted her eyes, slow and deliberate, focusing them on the flat screen on the wall.

"Chonnie, you can't get your girl to be on time." Unaware of the awkwardness between them, Tonya chastised Sasha and Michonne in the same breath. "She'll be on time for Bowtie Bob though. Won't she? I saw you with 'Mr. Black Power', Sasha. You joining his little hood movement?"

Michonne looked to Sasha curiously at the news. Everyone knew Robert Stookey. He went to school with Sasha and Michonne. But while they were starting college, he was just beginning a seven year bid for a trumped up murder charge.

Inside, he became an adherent to the teachings of the Nation, an offshoot of African-American Islam. He found discrepancies in his case that proved his innocence and he secured his freedom. Once he was exonerated, he donned the smart suits, stiff collars and ties the Nation was known for. The streets called him Bowtie Bob.

But less than a year of walking a straight line in the Nation was enough submission for Bob. He insisted on retribution for his years lost and decided a more militant approach to black injustice was needed. So Bowtie Bob quit the discipline of religion.

Setting himself up as the leader of a new conviction, he legally established his own spiritual code, The Tenets of the Third Eye. Bob began calling himself God Raj, completely woke from the American Dream. He donned a black and gold kufi like a crown over his black rimmed glasses. His skinny build was accentuated by the slim-fit of his brightly colored textiles from the motherland. It was hard to deny that he looked every bit the well-groomed intellectual.

The authorities would have loved to welcome him back to a prison cell, but Bob knew his rights better than the police did. He never gave them an inch of leeway. To them, he wasn't worth the trouble, no matter how much his narrative chafed them.

His rhetoric extolling the black race as divine, was generally received, to some extent, by most of the people who looked like him. To believe that there could be something of themselves beyond what they were accused of being, beyond the societal demotion, and beyond what those who would scorn and smother them easily struck a chord.

It's easy enough just to believe, but Bob was a man of action. A man who lectured, mobilized and persuaded a certain few. The night Michonne left her apartment, Sasha went for a walk to simmer her high voltage emotions.

She ran into Bob as he locked up his selfmade storefront seminary down the block from Tonya's shop. Raj wholeheartedly agreed with Sasha's version of Rick and Michonne's relationship. He convinced her that her friend was lost like so many were.

"The man's name is God Raj," Sasha squashed the nickname he was known by and demanded respect with her tone. "And there is nothing little or hood about his movement."

"Oh well, excuse me," Tonya responded flippantly. "I had to ask him not to come in here harassing my clientele. He had the nerve to come in here and tell one of my clients that a 'goddess divine' doesn't need to be half naked to attract a king."

"No he didn't! Girl, who did he say that to," Sheena asked. The half amused, half offended look on her face fractured Tonya's indignant features with a smile.

"Sandy."

Sheena sputtered out a scoff and waved a dismissive hand. "Sandy is a hoe. They won't even let her in her son's school dress the way she does." Tonya looked at her and they both erupted in laughter.

"Y'all talk about that girl behind her back. At least Raj is trying to help her," Sasha pointed out.

Held accountable for their hypocrisy, Tonya and Sheena's laughter instantly died. Michonne could see in her best friend's face that Sasha was just getting warmed up for a rant. That fierce look in her eyes, the angle of her lean in the chair and her crossed legs and arms were all too familiar to anyone that had ever locked horns with Sasha Williams.

She felt uncomfortable for Tonya and Sheena and she lowered her head in awkward silence as she braced herself to hear the two women be scolded like stepchildren. But the direction of Sasha's reprimand took an unmistakable turn when her stern tone slanted with sarcasm.

Michonne looked up, with a roll of her eyes when she heard Sasha say, "Helping others is not always a popular thing. Is it Chonnie?"

Already tired of where Sasha was going with that question, Michonne took a deep breath and let go of an unimpressed sigh. "I'm not about to do this with you, Sasha."

"Do what?"

"This. Not in here."

"Where else would you like to do 'this', Michonne? You left my house to be with your blue-eyed knight in shining armor." Sheena's jaw dropped and Tonya's eyes widened at the news.

"You get attacked... and nearly killed, if the state of your house is any indication… and you don't even call me?" Sasha's voice betrayed her disappointment but also her disbelief that Michonne hadn't come running back to her after the fire.

"Phones work both ways, Sasha."

"Are y'all okay." Tonya stopped her work on Michonne's head, treading carefully into the biting back and forth. "What's the matter?"

"Sorry, Tonya. We're fine." Michonne tried to douse the blaze that Sasha was stoking.

"Y'all hear this? She's about to put her baby in the ground and she's fine." Sasha threw up air quotes and rolled her eyes. "Either the dick gave her amnesia or she's brainwashed." She stood up, animated and wearing a wild smirk. She questioned Michonne, "What the hell Rick Grimes got you believing? Y'all gonna be a family? Shut the rest of the world out? Forget about everybody else… even Andre?"

"Sasha, don't say that,." Tonya tried to intervene.

"No, It's okay, Tonya," Michonne responded calmly, even as tears filled her eyes. She refused to address anything Sasha said about Rick. She knew he was just the jumping off point of her rage.

Michonne got up and walked toward her friend cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal. "I'm sorry you feel left out, Sasha. You still hold the same part of my heart that you always did. I could never forget you. You're still my best friend. You're still Peanut's godmother."

Sasha tried one last time. "Then come back."

Michonne stopped in her tracks. Normally, Sasha fussed and fought until she got her way. She always got results. But not this time. This time Michonne couldn't be manipulated.

"Sasha. I'm good. I promise."

"Without me? Just like that?"

"That's your choice. It doesn't have to be that way."

"It does," Sasha said coolly. She picked up her coat and slowly swung it around her shoulders. "You've moved on with your life," she nodded with finality, "and I'll move on with mine."

"You leaving, Sasha," Tonya asked, completely confused by everything she was hearing.

"Yeah. I'll call you to reschedule. Sorry."

This time Michonne didn't call her back as Sasha walked out into the cold. She went back to her salon chair and silently waited for Tonya to proceed. The stylist opened her mouth to ask Michonne exactly what was going on.

She cut her off. "Tonya, please, can you just finish my hair."

Tonya looked to Sheena, who cocked her head and gave her an expression that read 'case closed'. The stiff silence in the shop transitioned into a more comfortable lull as each of them retreated into their own thoughts.

Soon, Sheena paid Tonya and left. Then another woman came commenting on how quiet the shop seemed. Another movie. This time Denzel was a crook. Then another head of hair. When Michonne checked the clock, it was later than she'd planned.

She missed Rick. The sound of his voice and the smell of his skin. But she was trying to hold off on calling him while she was there. But as the minutes ticked by, she realized that if she didn't call him, he'd call her soon. If she waited for him to call he'd already be worried. Since the fire, he'd been on edge like she'd never seen him.

She decided to make the call a quick one.

...

"Race war?" Daryl said stunned at the news. Rick reacted exactly the same way when Dale explained everything to him. Only, as the sheriff of King County, he felt the prickle of embarrassing ignorance under his flannel shirt collar.

The Saviors of the Confederate were days away from making a large purchase of tactical gear, assault rifles and explosives in preparation to make Georgia ground zero for what they called the Aryan Emergence. Negan had managed to assemble a small army of disenfranchised white men and women ready and angry enough to kill and die for their made-up cause.

Historic black colleges and churches, minority-owned businesses and prominent politicians who backed policies that benefited who they perceived as the enemy were the targets of the 24 hour mayhem they were plotting.

Negan's son, Lucien gave him the idea after watching the movie The Purge. But instead of a chaotic free-for-all in the streets, Negan envisioned a highly organized, well armed operation that would go down in history as the day the true owners of America took their country back. Their dream was a country full of white faces and anybody that disagreed with that, was the enemy.

"Horvath has someone on the inside of the operation," Rick explained. "They fund their operation with human traffickin'. Takin' money from people crossin' from Mexico, desperate for the American dream. Then when they get them here, they doublecross'em and get paid again, sellin' the girls and women to sex houses and the men to different fields and kitchens all over the country."

The fingerprints taken from Dwight's accomplice identified him as one Jared Collins, a resident of Crystal City, Texas. Jared was a scourge on the women of border cities. His rap sheet was a list of sordid sexual assaults, still it seemed he never spent more than a few weeks behind bars.

It was a sad fact of life that men like him, handsome and charismatic, were often a perfect lure for runaways and immigrants. So many girls vanished without a trace into the hellish world of forced prostitution.

Contempt was thick in the sheriff's voice, "Dale has some video footage that'll turn your stomach. It's fuckin' modern-day slavery."

Daryl instantly thought about Rosita being held against her will, frightened and abused. It made him clench his teeth through the wave of nausea he felt. His imagination turned his stomach without any of the footage Rick mentioned. But Rick's next words sent him pale, perspiring and light-headed.

"Dale says your brother is with'em."

"With'em? What do you mean with'em?"

"He's with'em," Rick repeated unsure of how to make it clearer. "He's helpin'em. He's gettin'em guns and gear and trainin'em. A legitimate homegrown terrorist.

"For a race war?" Despite what Daryl had come in to tell his commanding officer about his brother, the words 'race war' seemed too far-fetched and macabre even for this current nightmare. He had no idea how deep in the mire his brother had dug himself.

"Yeah," Rick confirmed grimly. "Somehow we live in a place where little old Muslim women get harassed for wearin' hijabs, but an army of white guys trainin' for a race war don't even get a second look."

 _Race war?_ Daryl just kept repeating to himself, drowning out the sheriff lamenting the fact that there had been signs he missed. A race war?

The Saviors of the Confederate were lying so low beneath the radar, nobody paid them any mind. Their website was pretty tame when it came to hate speech, especially compared to some of the other bigoted dribble out there. There was nothing to suggest they were perpetrating violence- just the usual ignorant slop that entitled whites who claim to be unbiased patriots spew.

Daryl's mouth was dry, no doubt due to the fire in his throat that made his voice croak with the first syllable he uttered next, "There's somethin' else, Rick. Merle knew that kid was in the car."

Aghast, Rick's pale face mirrored Daryl's for the few seconds it took the rookie to finally unburden himself of the secrets he'd been carrying. They each felt for the other's pain in the truth of Merle's actions.

"How do you know?"

"I was talking to him right before the stop. Heard him say the car had two occupants."

Rick peered at Daryl over his desk. The closed wooden door of his office did little to muffle the sounds of the station's staff bustling about in their work, oblivious to the heavy revelations of the young deputy. He could clearly see the empty hall beyond his office. There was no one out there eavesdropping, still he spoke in a hushed tone.

"I can't believe Merle would..." Rick suddenly switched concerns, "What about Walsh?"

He figured it was pretty obvious that his best friend was just as guilty. Still, he had to hear it confirmed before he could truly collapse in disappointment. Shane was his best friend in the world for so many years, he couldn't bring himself to jump to that conclusion.

"Merle says Walsh didn't know beforehand. He came to the situation late and just backed up his partner." That was the only good news Daryl had and despite the overall heaviness of this conversation, he breathed a little easier seeing Rick's shoulders relax some when his best friend was cleared.

Daryl wanted to feel some of that weight lifted from his own shoulders. "The brother who raised me ain't bad like this, Rick. You gotta believe me. It's those S.O.C. fuckers, man," Daryl's anger sprang up wet in his eyes. "They fucked his mind up completely. I know it's hard to see him as anythang but a fuckin' baby killin' cop, but that ain't him, Rick. This was a long time ago, before you got here but I know you heard 'bout him and Morgan."

"Havin' a black partner don't clear 'em of bein' an obvious racist." Rick was quick to shut down the sentimentalism of that origin story. It wouldn't have made a difference to him. What Daryl had just told him excluded Merle from any catharsis the leader of KC's finest might've been willing to give. Michonne was taken out of the equation. "That fuckin' evil bastard!"

Thankfully the elder Dixon was not there. At the moment, there was nothing Rick wanted more than to get that man in arm's reach. His anger was clouding his sight, figuratively and physically. He brought both his hands up and over his face to walk back the blinding rage that was developing. He could barely make out Daryl's words.

"No, you don't understand. Merle and Morg… they wasn't just partners… they was brothers. Even closer than me and him. Merle ain't no racist, Rick. He ain't."

Rick grunted through a sigh. It was his fault for keeping Merle on the force. There was never any proof for the sheriff that Merle was any more than an asshole, but maybe if he'd been paying closer attention instead of being preoccupied with Philip and his bullshit or letting Andrea down easy or trying to compensate for his son's dislike of his new school …

When the sheriff's mind drifted to the idea that if Daryl had come clean about the company his brother was keeping, Andre would still be alive, his body surged with anger so acute that he could barely breathe. He and Michonne would have likely remained strangers, but the same would be true of her and misery.

Looking at the tearful young man in his office, Rick thought of Carl. His son had been in denial too when he and Lori sat him down and told him that their marriage was over. Remembering that day in light of the current one, left a bitter taste in Rick's mouth and stirred up an unwelcome sympathy for Daryl's staunch hope in the goodness of his brother.

There were so many 'if onlys' but they were all irrelevant now. There was no way to go back and change anything. The only thing that could be done now is to make sure Merle paid for his crime and that the Nazi-wannabes he teamed up with were stopped.

Just then his office phone rang.

 _Michonne. How the hell do I tell her this? Do I tell her this?_

"Hey, honey," Rick answered. "You okay?" Daryl looked askance, troubled by the caller's timing. He pushed himself out of his chair with frustration and squeezed his fist in his other hand as he paced over the squares of the glossy floor. He looked to Rick concern when his boss asked, "Where are you? What's that noise?"

Michonne lifted the hair dryer hood so Rick could hear her. "I'm still at the shop." She lightly touched the roots of her newly washed and twisted locs. "I'm not going to make it…" she paused reluctant to call his house 'home'... "I'm not going to make it back in time for dinner."

"Yeah, me either." Rick checked the clock. He had a lot more to discuss with Daryl. "Well, what time do you think you'll be home? I'll grab somethin' for us on my way in."

"I don't really know. She's doing two other heads besides mine. I'm not really hungry anyway. Just get whatever you want. I was just letting you know I'd be late. I didn't want you to worry. Don't wait for me."

"You ok?" Rick bunched his brow, feeling just a bit uncomfortable by the contradiction of her wavering voice around such easy-going words. She was quick to promise him that she was fine. Though he didn't believe her, the corner of his mouth hinted at a smile, proud that he knew her well enough to see through her guise.

Any number of things could be worrying her, he realized. Merle Dixon's crime and Negan Jeffries plans wouldn't make the list if he had anything to do with it. He was going to see to it that Merle paid dearly and there was no way any 'Aryan Emergence' would raise its ugly head now.

Determined to ensure that she mourned her baby in peace, he conceded. "Well, I can't wait to see the finished product later. I'm actually in the middle of somethin' here, so…"

"Oh! I'm sorry!"

"Don't be. I appreciate you bein' mindful enough to let me know what's goin' on," he told her, even as he kept the information he'd just learned to himself. "I love you."

"Yeah. Okay," Michonne stuttered out a reply when she saw Tonya coming to check her progress. Afraid to be met with questions, she only said goodbye before she hung up. "I'll see you soon."

Daryl, who had been staring at his boots, in deep thought, came to life when he heard the sheriff end their call in such a meaningful way. It rattled him all the more when Rick put his phone down, and the pacific manner he'd given Michonne turned ice cold.

"Look, I didn't know the Merle Dixon that raised you, but if you're telling me he was a stand-up guy and you wanna repay that Merle then you can't stand by this one. I'm afraid that whatever your brother was…" Rick said mournfully, "he ain't that no more. Now you gotta decide if you're gonna be who he was then, or who he is now. You can help stop him and the whole operation or you can hand over your badge and gun right now."


	17. Chapter 17: Be Strong, Sweet Child

**Be Strong, Sweet Child**

 **Thank you for choosing Channel 4 News. The funeral for Andre August-Lancey will be held tomorrow at Kingdom Ministries Church. You'll recall the officer-involved shooting in King County last week ended with the five year old dead and his father, Michael Lancey, in custody facing charges including: drug possession, two counts of aggravated assault on an officer, three counts of child endangerment as well as other charges. The officers involved, Deputies Shane Walsh and Merle Dixon, were cleared of any wrongdoing, sparking a protest and subsequent riot in Robinson Park.**

 **Two nights ago, the child's mother, Michonne August was a victim of arson. While arrests were made in that crime, footage of the fire shows K.C.'s sheriff, Rick Grimes was a guest in Ms. August's home at the late hour when the fire was started, leading to rumors of a romantic relationship between the two. Meanwhile, calls for the sheriff's resignation grow louder as the community at large doubts the deputies innocence and demand someone be held accountable for the senseless death of one so young.**

It had taken a few glasses of wine to settle Michonne for bed. She went to sleep in Rick's arms and woke up to him leaning against his bedroom window's frame, staring out into the blank beginnings of the sunrise. He watched curiously as tiny flurries fell from the heather clouds in the sky. This far south and this time of year, snow was rare.

As the funeral approached, it seemed everything ignited Michonne's memories of Andre. Since that night he showed up at Sasha's, Rick found himself entranced listening to Michonne chronicle the mundane to the momentous in her journey as Andre's mother. He sponged it all up and now it seemed everything around him brought Andre to life in his mind too.

Like Michonne's video of her baby's face, smooth and brown, under his plaid green trapper hat. The resolution of her screen could not fully capture the brightness of him grinning up into the Colorado air. Snowflakes landed on his long black lashes and the tip of his tongue.

He was just big enough to go in February. A ski trip that Sasha insisted on. A ski trip that Michonne would have skipped had she known her feet would be frozen the whole time. A ski trip that Andre begged to repeat as soon as his mother pulled out his winter coat a few weeks ago.

Rick could hear Andre's delightful giggles in the silent touch down of the flakes outside his window, until he heard the sound of movement from their bed. Michonne sat up and pulled her knees to her chest under the cozy covers. His smile was as warm as his voice and his voice was as deep as the dimple in his cheek,

"Mornin', love."

"Good morning," Michonne whimpered out a sleepy moan and hugged herself tighter, stretching her back and her toes. "You're already dressed? What time is it?"

"Still early. How'd ya sleep?"

"Better than I thought I would," Michonne said rubbing her eyes. She blinked up, noticing the weather and jumped out of bed with a gasp, "Oh! It's snowing?!" She came to stand beside Rick and snuggled into his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder. She stood mute for a moment, just taking in the scene.

"Makes you think about Andre, huh?"

She nodded. "Half of me is sad that he doesn't get to see it. Another part of me feels grateful. Like this is a sign from above…or out there… from somewhere, that he's loved… that he's okay."

Rick took that in for a moment. He understood her completely and he told her so. "You know," he spoke softly, still looking out into the tiptoeing morning, "Half of me is sad that I never got to meet him, but another part of me looks at these snowflakes and feels grateful too. I know you've got more memories of your Peanut than everyone of them. There's nothin' like the joy in your voice or the love in your face when you talk about him."

"I love him so much, Rick. I did."

"You do," he corrected. "You still do and always will."

"Well," Michonne sighed, fighting back her tears, "I guess… I'll get ready."

….

Rick hated having to wear his uniform to pay his respects to the sweet little boy he'd come to know through the testimony of others. No one responded to his request for a police presence. That pissed him off, but he'd go it alone with no hesitation.

He'd had his black suit cleaned and bought a new tie in Andre's favorite color. But the suit remained wrapped in thin cellophane in his closet. He looked at Michonne slip her black bra strap over her arm and marveled.

 _Nobody'll notice me anyway. Not standing next to her._

The satin emerald green dress Michonne shimmied over her hips had barely escaped the inferno that claimed her former home. There wasn't much to salvage. Luckily though, she found her special dress hanging in its heavy duty garment bag. It smelled a little smokey, but it was one of the few articles of clothing that didn't end up in a soggy black pile on her lawn.

Rick zipped her up and they stood there in silence looking at each other in the mirror for the longest time. He couldn't take his eyes off of her this morning and she, though consciously trying not to be too clingy, wanted him as close to her as possible.

It was so curious to them both how quickly worlds can change, for better or worse. Torn down in one night or built in a few days. Even though Michonne loved being there with him and was grateful for his generosity, the totality of everything she lost was never far from her mind.

The backdrop of the glass shower door and large matte black wall tiles was so different from the bright lemon yellow pattern of her old shower curtain. Even though there was more than enough room to spread them out on Rick's large master bathroom counter, she kept all her cosmetics confined to her makeup bag. It made her miss her tiny, impractical pedestal sink and the annoying task of trying to apply eye liner while Andre bumped her with his elbow, brushing his teeth.

With Michonne standing in front of her new love, her reflection dominated the bathroom mirror's frame. It was a near perfect metaphor for Rick's new life. He hadn't left her side all morning. A tear ran down her soft ebony face like a falling star. She rolled her eyes with irritation that she kept ruining her makeup. She snatched up a tissue and dabbed at the cloudy streak.

Rick stroked her arms, wordlessly offering comfort in the gentleness of his big strong hands. It was hard to tell where the smooth fabric of her capped sleeves ended and where her supple skin began.

After a deep, shaky exhale, Michonne seemed to want to lighten the mood. She chuckled softly at the memory surfacing in her head and ended their quiet moment.

"This is the dress I wore to last years' Christmas party at the firm. I bought it online. I never really had the time for trips to the mall. So I kind of developed a little online shopping addiction," she measured out the severity of her habit between the small space of her thumb and her index.

"Peanut picked out this dress… any excuse not to go to bed… he invaded my bed and sat beside me while I scrolled my laptop looking for something to wear. The dress had to be, number one," she ticked her fingers with conviction, making Rick grin, "festive but not too 'Christmassy'- so I could wear it more than once. Number two: sexy but not too sexy. Still, appropriate for the workplace. And most importantly, number three: on sale."

"Peanut sees this dress and it's his favorite color."

Both of them imitated Andre's imperfect elocution. "'Gween'." They shared a laugh.

"Of course," Michonne continued, "it's nothing I would have ever picked for myself. I look like a housewife from the 40's," she joked, wiping her eyes. "But Andre said the dress was like one Peggy Carter wore, so of course I had to get it."

"And who's Peggy Carter?"

Michonne looked up at Rick in the mirror and laughed at herself for talking about a fictional character like she was someone everyone should know. "Peggy Carter is the love of Captain America's life and my five-year old's idea of the perfect woman."

"Oh, I see."

"She's cool, but," Michonne explained, as she secured her dark pearl studs in her ears, "I mean, her style is pretty dated. But it ended up being a great buy. I got so many compliments that night. I wore it a couple weeks later to his Valentine's dance and his gym teacher asked me out."

Rick had mixed feelings to that news. Jealousy sparked, but the flattered look on Michonne's face was too adorable. He was curious. "What happened?"

She gave herself a maroon lip and countered, "With the gym teacher?" Rick nodded. She shrugged. "Sasha talked me out of it and we didn't really have any chemistry, so… you know how it goes."

Of course, Rick knew. For once, Sasha's opinionated attitude played in his favor. He watched Michonne apply a little mascara to lengthen her thick eyelashes. Every part of her was so beautiful. Even with her puffy red-rimmed eyes from her weeping spells of the morning, the glory of her astounded him. He pitied that gym teacher... but not too much.

"Well, I think Andre has some great taste. You look…" he groped for a word that would do her justice.

His pause made her stop what she was doing, her mascara brush suspended in mid air. Frozen, she waited nervously for the end of that sentence. The look on his face seemed to sober, like he was pulling the word from the bottom of his soul.

Finally, he realized there were no words. He simply said, "stunnin'."

The moment suddenly intensified, leaving them both mesmerized at the presence of the other.

Michonne faced Rick, throwing her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Rick."

"Well, you are. You're the most beautiful thang I've ever seen…"

"Thank you, but I didn't mean that." Michonne looked up into his eyes, "Thank you for everything. When they told me my baby was gone," tears began to roll over her cheeks again as her lips quivered, "Rick, I just wanted to die. But because of you, I want to live. I want to keep living life with you. You've given me a home and you've taken care of me and I feel strong. I may not look it… since I've been in tears all morning..."

"No, no. You do. You look strong."

"I feel strong and I love you so much. And I'm sorry I didn't say it yesterday on the phone. I feel so bad about that. It'll never happen again. I'm proud to say I'm yours. I am."

"I'm grateful to you for bein' brave enough to try this at all." Rick caressed her face, still healing from her tussle with Jared Collins but still so beautiful. Her willingness to fight for their love magnified her beauty inside and out. "You've got so much to process right now, Michonne. You sort out your feelin's however you need to. I'm not goin' anywhere ."

He wanted to make love to her. God, he wanted to feel her and taste her. Desire gnawed at him like a ravenous dog, but he found the wherewithal to pull her close to his chest and tenderly press his lips to her temple. "You're gonna be alright, baby. We're gonna be alright."

….

The whole world seemed to be painted gray. Gray, from the somber sky, to the iridescent akoya pearls cascading from Michonne's slender neck and the distinguished stony gray of the simple little church, even the hair of the ushers who had served there for decades.

Gabriel's church was the only place she would do this. She'd known him longer than she'd known Sasha. They were never close but Gabriel never felt like a stranger to her, no matter how much time passed between them.

His daddy ran the church before him and his daddy's daddy before that. Now, the pulpit was his. He took his ministry seriously. He was soft-spoken, but with a smile and a kind word always at the ready. He didn't need any of the robes his father wore to care for his flock. He saw that as a costume. A simple suit, tie and leather-bound bible was enough for a shepherd.

And when he heard about what happened to little Andre, even though Michonne hadn't been there in years, he made sure the church's schedule would accommodate whatever she needed. It truly moved Pastor Gabe when he saw the turnout. The line of mourners extended out onto the street.

There were so many there that would never be in church for any other reason. He said a silent prayer that he might be able to do some good and give at least one person hope in the face of such an unbearable loss. Most of all, he wanted to help bring his friends some comfort. He looked on as Michonne, like an automated voice messaging service, conveyed polite gratitude to the scores of unknown faces passing the front pew singlefile.

There were people who she'd seen in passing: grocery shopping, next to her at a red light, in the halls of Andre's school, in the elevator at work. And it was easy to tell from the looks she received, who knew about her and Rick.

Morales' footage was being played and replayed to death-

The grieving mother wrapped in a blanket, looking quite shell-shocked at her son's Brave's cap and huddled under Rick's protective arm. The sheriff, with a battered blond suspect subdued and on his knees nearly choking from his conqueror's grip of his coat collar.

Her blackened house now sat quiet and still, but the fires had raged that night. Not unlike the man standing confidently in this house of God but out of his jurisdiction. He was in defiance of the mayor, the governor and the chief of police, but it was all in testament to his love for Michonne and the community that made her.

The few familiar embraces from friends in her reserved uneventful life sent crushing waves of emotion to swallow her up.

Aaron and Eric begged her not to isolate herself any longer. Their invitation for her to make herself welcome in their home whenever she wanted was met with an appreciative smile. However, Aaron's assurance that her job with the firm was secure made her realize that she hadn't thought once about returning. All those hours of the high pressure grind only made her feel accomplished when they directly benefited her little boy.

Law had been the pick to make her parents proud. After their relationship crumbled, she was too far down the legal path to turn back. As she looked in Mr. Bernard's kind eyes and his husband's genuine smile, their words gradually muted as her thoughts drifted to what she would do with her life now. Besides Rick, nothing in her life was certain.

She spied him, blue eyes like a lighthouse beacon, sweeping the crowd. The bulletproof vest he wore as a precaution, augmented his already strapping frame. A drab brown tie laid lengthwise down his chest, his name tag and polished KC badge on either side.

It took less than a second for him to feel her staring. Kinetic energy saturated his skin. He gave her a quick wink and a nod and went right back to patrolling the steady stream of people. Even though she could read the trepidation on his face, somehow that reassured her more than all the condolences she'd received.

Neighbors, community leaders, teachers and doctors, even the well-known thugs and criminals, swelled the church. Rick had no idea so many people would come. He would have only requested maybe five of Captain Lerner's officers to keep watch over the proceedings. But now he saw that wouldn't have been enough. Having Daryl and Carol with him, honestly made very little difference with the civilian ratio.

He couldn't help but think, since his recent encounter with fire, that if some villain decided to throw a molotov cocktail- or worse- at the doors of the church, the ensuing stampede would see a lot of people hurt. He tried to keep the people moving along and was met with scornful eyes over and over again. Some, however, seemed to appreciate his presence and told him so, but they held up the line and left him wishing for more scorn for the sake of crowd control.

Andrea Mitchell gave him plenty when she walked past him. Where Lori had looked on him with pity when he came to her with his pleas for help, Andrea seemed amused by his presence there. She shook her head and scoffed as though he was the most ridiculous man.

"I don't think this relationship is good for you, Rick," she whispered sarcastically. The cut above his eye was healing, but the brawl with Michonne's attacker had added more bruises to his face. "You look beat… and lost. Shouldn't King County's sheriff be in King County?"

Before Rick could respond, Carol stepped to his side. "And what are you doing here, Ms. Mitchell? I thought I heard that Ms. August decided not to work with you."

"Is that what you thought you heard," Andrea cut her eyes to Carol, pursing her lips in irritation at Rick's old bitch of a guard dog. "I'm here to support the cause. Besides, showing my face here can't hurt. I mean, just look around," she said, smugly doing so herself, "I've got the entire hood in one building today. There's bound to be another 'Lil' Andre' in here and I want his family to know who to call."

Carol rolled her eyes behind closed lids. Rick clenched the butt of his gun with one hand and the cuff case on his belt with the other. He took a deep breath as Andrea strutted away down the aisle. She began shaking hands and introducing herself to anyone she deemed important.

Rick kept his line of sight straight ahead, having seen more than enough of the blonde barracuda. It made him sick to think that he had ever been so intimately connected with her. He wondered how many other people in his life would show their true colors before it was all said and done.

His sister came in a few moments later. She stepped out of the flow of people and stood by her brother's side.

Maggie whispered in disbelief, "You guys are the only cops that showed?" Disappointed, Rick just shook his head at the situation. "This is bullshit, Rick." She covered her mouth, realizing where she was. "What if somethin' happens?"

She could see in his face that she was preaching to the choir. Her brother didn't have any answers for her. He was trying to hide how worried he was but he couldn't hide it from her.

Rick changed the conversation to one of the few positives he could think of, "Michonne'll be glad to see you. Do me a favor. Go up there and keep Andrea out of her face." He nodded toward the front where Ms. Mitchell was bypassing the line, making her way to Michonne.

"No problem." Maggie said with all seriousness. She pulled Andrea back from her stalk of Michonne and introduced her to the handsome president of one of the local non-profits.

Maggie's words scratched around inside his skull. He looked at his backup: one a rookie, the other closing in on retirement. He hoped they were ready.

Years of friendship compelled Carol to be there and of course Daryl volunteered out of guilt. The three of them wouldn't be able to do much with an upstart of any unrest. They could only pray their visible presence was a deterrent. Rick looked to the carved image of a crucified Jesus and raised an optimistic brow. _Well, at least we're in the right place for prayers._

He listened to Carol make a suggestion about the flow of traffic in the middle aisle but his focus was on Michonne. The look of shock on her face and the stifled smile that followed made him wonder who the woman in the deep olive green, wool coat in front of her could be. He watched Michonne hesitate bringing her finger tips up to touch the other woman's short blonde curls.

Rick was taken aback when the unknown woman looked his way, wearing Sasha's face.

"Sash?" Michonne looked inquisitively at her friend. "You came?" Besides her new hair, Sasha's expression gave her pause. She was smiling. She was calm. She was apologetic.

"Of course I came, Chonnie. It hurts that you're surprised by that, but I understand."

"Your hair… It looks nice."

"Thanks. It was time for a change. Look, I want to apologize about how I acted at Tonya's yesterday. I was completely out of pocket. And I want to let you know that I thought about what you said. I do need some closure about what happened to me. I talked to Raj about it… well some of it and he agrees. I've got issues," Sasha chuckled and shook her head somewhat bewildered. "I admit that."

The mention of Raj perked Michonne's ears, but she focused on her friend's admission. "We all do, Sash. That's why we have to be here for each other. I hope you know that I'm always here for you."

"I do. I get it now. I wish I could take back what I told you at my place the other night. I don't want things awkward between us." She pulled the leather cord around her neck up from her coat. A blue crystal pendant dangled at the end. "Raj gave me this. It's agate. It's supposed to give me positive vibes and help me foster friendships," Sasha looked up from the gemstone, expectantly.

Michonne grabbed her into her arms. "Necklace or no necklace, we're besties for life, Sash."

Over Michonne's shoulder, Sasha met Rick's eyes. After Michonne told him about their confrontation, Rick's opinion of Sasha was even lower than before. And she didn't try to hide the fact that she hadn't much changed her opinion of him either.

Michonne seemed fine, but Sasha shot daggers at Rick with her glare. Her face roiled like a tempest under her shea butter sheen. Her cornsilk hair cropped into a low mohawk complemented her delicate features, but, somehow, it also made her strong hostile stare that much more unnerving.

He kept his eyes trained.

"I see, your bodyguard is still around. Ready to protect you," she spoke of Rick, rolling her eyes with disdain and breaking her hug with Michonne.

"He's here to protect all of us."

"Uh-huh," Sasha replied, unconvinced.

"He's never heard you sing before. I told him your voice would have him officially

'black churched'," Michonne said jokingly, hoping to bring back Sasha's smile. It worked.

"Raj has never heard me sing before either," Sasha said, looking back toward the entrance. "He thinks Christianity's a scam, but he said he might come."

Michonne quirked her brow. "Is there something going on between you two?" It almost felt like old times with her best friend and their teenage boyfriend banter. She wanted so badly for Sasha to find what she had found with Rick. Even if it was with a weirdo like Bob.

"What?" Sasha looked offended, confused and guilty, all in the same split second. She deflected, "I'm holding up the line, so I'm gonna go and check my music with the organist."

Sasha walked away from Michonne and shot a look of disgust to a woman in a wrinkled and snagged, lint-ridden sweater dress, before pounding to the opposite side of the church. Cookie crossed her legs in tacky purple hose and red kitten heels and rolled her eyes right back.

Mike's mother sat nearest the aisle in the third row. She appeared to be accompanied by the dregs of the gutter. Her friends- fellow junkies- reeked of alcohol and weed. They smelled bad and looked worse.

"My son wouldn't never hurt that baby or nobody else," Cookie said through her missing teeth. She was louder than there was any need to be and the obvious accusatory glance in Michonne's direction made it plain that she wanted everyone to hear her. "Mike wasn't like his daddy. He did right by his son. Some people might'a forgot, but I'm here to let you know. He ain't what they sayin'."

"Sure ain't," said the woman beside her, looking like her next stop would be the city drunk tank.

As improbable as it was, it seemed even Cookie had been coherent enough to catch the news. Her phlegm-coated throat continued to croak to her row of crusty delinquents, "We gotta support our black men. 'Mer'ca don't love'em that's for damn sure. As black women, if we don't love'em, I don't know who will."

Sasha seemed to roll her eyes in annoyance at part of Mike's mother's comments, but huffed in agreement with the broader issue of racial exclusivity. All the while Michonne looked straight ahead to the enlarged memorial photograph of Andre's big bright smile and his budding little locs.

Her son had Mike's high forehead and narrow chin, just like Cookie's. More than being insulted, Michonne was embarrassed for her. But she knew any intervention would just make the situation worse.

Rick narrowed his eyes through a rigid head tilt. The commotion Mike's mother was trying to stir up grated his nerves and the loud smack of Cookie's mouth around a cough drop only heightened his irritation. He grit his teeth for the patience to follow Michonne's lead on asking Cookie to settle down or leave.

From the back of the church, he felt the frigid gust of wind on his back as people came and went. But he went slack-jawed when, as he kept watch over Michonne at the front of the church, another Michonne walked right past him from the cloudy day outside.

A long chestnut bob parted at the side framed her slightly rounder face. She had the Michonne he loved by at least twenty pounds. The silk floral scarf around her neck danced behind her weightlessly in contrast to the swift rigidity of her heavy march down the middle aisle.

It made sense to Rick as he remembered Michonne's description of her childhood home. A teenage bride and the decorated Marine. Her father ran his house like many military men- a family well-trained for quick obedience and formal routines. Gayle August looked every bit the seasoned soldier until she reached for her daughter, softened and pulled her into a maternal embrace.

"Mommy," Michonne sputtered out through emerging sobs, questioning surprise shading her face.

She fell onto her mother's neck and Rick felt a warm knot develop in his throat at seeing his woman get what he'd prayed for in her behalf: a break.

A break on some level or some place in her life. The way she whispered over her pillow about wanting to reconcile with her parents made him miss his own. Illness had claimed Lucy and Kenneth Grimes, but Michonne's parent's left her when she needed them most. He admired her resolve to keep them at a distance until their attitude towards her changed.

It seemed that finally it had… for her mother, at least.

"Sweet child of mine." Gayle spoke softly over her daughter's shoulder. She called Michonne by the title of the sentimental song penned by Axl Rose. It had been their private lullaby when Michonne was just a girl and it turned into a term of endearment, especially during life's rough patches. This most certainly was one of those.

"I am so sorry I stayed away..." As a mother, it had violated every bone in her body to turn her back on Michonne. Hugo had her convinced that a little tough love was for their daughter's own good. The rare phone call to Michonne, without fail, ended with her saying something that offended the young woman. It seemed efforts to keep in touch, pushed them further apart. "But I'm here today."

The older woman clung to her daughter, feeling the flesh and blood that came from her body when she was just a girl herself. Gayle could detect the faint smell of smoke under the flowery notes of Michonne's hair and her heart sank at all her baby had been through. Always soft-spoken and a woman of few words, her mother said what she was there to say, "I love you, baby. I always will."

Gayle pulled away from the embrace to look Michonne over with a shaky smile. She looked so mature. Michonne seemed a lifetime older than she'd been the last time her mother saw her storming out of their house, running carelessly into all the pitfalls of a black woman's life. "Now, I can't stay long," her mother said, guiltily. "He says I'm defying him by coming at all."

Michonne knew what that meant. Her father was still determined to be the cold-hearted bastard she remembered. Her mother had risked a lot to be there. Defiance of the head of the house was an egregious sin by her father's standards. She looked in her mother's face and recognized the nervous smile. There would be hell to pay when she went home to her husband.

Her mother always told her that black women had to be stronger than anyone else.

 _"We gotta be strong, sweet child. Strong enough to accept that in life, we have to grab onto the few bright spots. Sometimes we have to make them bigger and brighter than they really are. We have to keep a light, so when dark times come- and they are going to come, we won't become darkness. We'll still be that beautiful light that God put in us. If you're strong, no one can take that away."_

Her mother told her that years after Michonne had sat in the backseat of Hugo's car and watched Gayle slide into the front seat beside him like a hostage.

They had been gone a week, but he found them and brought them home. Though she knew her mother was unhappy and she was unhappy for her, Michonne was relieved to go home. She always felt guilty for that.

"I understand." The relief of seeing her mother held a bitter aftertaste in the knowledge that things still wouldn't be resolved between her and her parents. She swallowed down the disappointment and returned her mother's half-hearted smile. "Thank you for coming, mommy. Just sit here with me as long as you can."

"Are you Chonnie's mother?" Michonne looked up and saw Cookie, arms crossed, blinking fast with that manic cocaine twitch. She plastered on a sarcastic smile. "It's so nice to finally meet you. Can I ask you a question?" Before Gayle could answer,Cookie demanded, "Why didn't you like my son?"

Michonne and her mother instantly felt the hostility in that question. She raised a brow, indignant. "And you are?"

"Mommy, this is Michael's mother, Corrine." Michonne tried to keep the introductions cordial.

Gayle stood up and extended her hand for a polite shake. Cookie obliged her but continued, "You thought your daughter was too good? My son told me that you and her father didn't want them to be together or keep the baby and I just want to know, what is the reason?"

"Cookie, maybe we should talk about this after…"

"No, Chonnie. We can talk about this now. Since it took her grandson's funeral just for me to meet her. Who knows when she might decide to just pop up again."

Michonne heard Cookie's friend across the aisle spit out, "Uppity ass."

She could see Rick from a distance. She rolled her eyes in irritation at the situation but shook her head in answer to his questioning eyes. She could handle Cookie's shenanigans. But before Michonne could intervene, Gayle's face turned deadly serious.

"Corrine... Cookie," Michonne's mother handled the name like a used tissue, disgusted with the other woman's behavior. Gayle was caught off guard and up in arms, but composed herself quickly. She swiped away the long veil of her straightened hair, standing tall with no hint of intimidation.

Gayle leaned in and spoke discreetly to Mike's mom, "It's best that you turn yourself around and head on back to your seat, now. If you'd like to have a discussion with me about all the reasons I knew your son and my daughter were ill-matched, we can certainly do so. But what you're not going to do is stand here in the middle of this church and act a damn fool or embarass my child with anymore of your tacky performance."

Cookie deflated. She looked unsure whether to heed Gayle's advice or press her luck. Her eyes bucked back and forth between Michonne, Gayle and her onlooking cronies. Michonne's mother helped her decide.

"Lady, you better move," Gayle whispered, stone-faced, through clenched teeth, pointing Cookie back to her seat. "You can go or I can drag your narrow tail back over there."

Michonne's eyes widened. She had never heard her mother speak like that. She certainly had never heard her threaten anyone with violence.

Cookie's feeble frame weakened in the face of Gayle's healthy stance and stern warning. She got going without another word and sank down onto the wooden bench from which she came. She did not glance back across the aisle or threaten a peep for the remainder of the service.


	18. Chapter 18: Caught in an Evil Net

**Caught in an Evil Net**

As Reverend Stokes called the congregants to their seats with a placid tone, Rick's vantage of Michonne was lost. The rows of standing onlookers raised their hands heavenward and blocked his view as the organ groaned out a majestic hymn.

The choir harmonized, the varied voices melding to flow thick and soothing like anointing oil. They praised Jah with hallelujah. And with the emotional call to worship vibrating the rafters, everyone agreed, regardless of their own individual beliefs.

The accomplishments of a 5 year old took longer to read than Gabriel would have guessed. Proud of her son, Michonne included her 'Peanut stories'. The time he had her stay up all night squeezing lemons and creating a colorful sign to sell lemonade in their driveway. Michonne had to explain that $100 per cup was just a tad bit too steep for lemonade.

Andre had seen a commercial for neglected and abused pets and he wanted to help. He had stopped asking for a puppy when his mother explained a dog would be lonely at their house. He was smart enough to see the sense in that. She worked so many late hours and he was home even less, spending weekends with his father.

If he couldn't have a pet, he was determined to help the ones in need. He settled on one dollar per homemade drink and made 103 bucks after selling roughly thirty cups. Every single person he served gave him a tip for being the most adorable sunbaked entrepreneur they had ever seen.

Sometimes he helped his arthritic next door neighbor pick weeds and fresh veggies from her garden. And when his Auntie Sasha had the flu, he facetimed her multiple times a day to check on her. She didn't have the heart to tell him the glow of the phone made her feel like elephants were stampeding through her skull or that all she wanted to do was sleep, not hear random facts from her little buddy about how people die from the flu every year.

Still, she managed to send a genuine smile through the phone screen whenever he held up the color pencil portrait he was creating to make her feel better. She still had it tacked to her cubicle at work. She still had him tacked to her heart as she stood to sing 'His Eye is on the Sparrow' with such a heartbreaking quality that the microphone she held crackled, unable to do her strong voice justice.

She went on singing unaided by the sound system, her pain and her grief carrying the consoling lyrics far into the back of the church. Rick marveled at the beauty she transmitted through her diaphragm in a tenor that nearly pulled tears from his eyes and bolstered his faith in things unseen.

But even as Sasha sang of Jesus' constant companionship and the ever-watchful eyes of God, hate was calcifying in her chest. The agate around her neck was not giving her positive vibes. Thoughts of revenge set her to boil. Contradicting the lyrics, she was not singing because she was happy. She was not singing because she was free.

She was singing because her name was typed in the program under 'solo'. She was singing because she used to sing to the sweet little Peanut whenever he spent the night with her. She was singing that song, in particular, because it was her mother's favorite. But she was just about done with all the piety and devotion to things unseen.

No one listening could have known her thinking as the muscles in her neck strained, her eyes closed and her nose crinkled with a crescendo. Shouts of encouragement and confirmation came from the crowd. People who had never heard her sing nodded to one another, impressed with her vocal range. The audience, most of whom she had already pulled from their seats, applauded loudly through their tears.

Michonne and Gayle were not exempt. Though still seated, they swayed in each other's arms. It had been a long many years since they had heard Sasha sing that way. It stirred up memories of Sasha and Tyreese's mom with a wooden handle paper fan in one hand, her heart under the other, beaming at her only daughter up on stage.

Leaving the stage, Sasha kissed her fingers and touched them to Andre's smiling photo. Gabriel called up her brother. Tyreese passed her wiping tears from his eyes, always moved by her singing. He climbed the steps, stood behind the podium and opened the bible to the page marked by a long red tassle.

"Ecclesiastes nine verses ten through twelve," Tyreese began his reading of the Old Testament with more composure than he thought he'd be able to muster. He was proud to hold it together for Michonne and Sasha though he frowned with worry at the divide between the two. But seeing Mrs. Gayle beside her daughter after so many years away, he assumed his sister was simply giving them space to reunite.

"Whatever your hand finds to do, do with all your might. For there is no work, nor planning, nor wisdom in the grave, where you are going. I have seen something further under the sun, that the swift do not always win the race, nor do the mighty win the battle, nor do the wise always have the food, nor do the intelligent always have the riches, nor do those with knowledge always have success because time and chance happen to all of them."

Tyreese's voice broke as he read on, thinking how unfair it was that any unexpected event could derail or completely wipe out a future so promising. "For man does not know his time. Just as fish are caught in an evil net and birds are caught in a trap, so are men ensnared in a time of disaster when it suddenly overtakes them."

Reverend Stokes replaced the large man at the microphone. "Suddenly," he paused for effect, snatching closed his fist as if he was catching the air. "It's the shock of it all that takes our breath away. But just as the swift do not have the race, the innocent are not assured peace. There is evil," the reverend spoke with pained authority, "evil in the world, which, like a net, none of us can escape."

"I picked those verses special for Brother Williams here," he gestured to Tyreese who was taking his seat again. "A good man. A man who works with his hands. He's a credit to the community, an entrepreneur. A landscaper, bringing beauty to the world. He plants seeds and nurtures emerging buds. The word says 'whatever your hand finds to do, do with all your might'."

"Well, I've seen our brother in the dead of summer, spraying what is parched with water. I've seen him bent over a shovel, removing the danger of a fall from icy paths in the winter. A hard worker. He does his work with all his might. He had a hand in nurturing another beautiful thing. Andre was just a little seed, a little bud. But along comes evil and plucks that sweet sprout from the earth. Now what will we do? Nurture evil? Or nurture something beautiful in the world?" The Reverend made his point to everyone assembled and nodded in particular solidarity to Tyreese. "Do it with all your might, because you can't do a thing in the grave."

The choir rose again with a song full of comfort. A graying soprano filled the rafters with a melody that made the church close it's collective eyes. She sang about a father's eternal love and the power he possesses to heal a broken heart.

Gayle held her baby tight, trying to shield her from the pain that crushed her from the inside out. Michonne relished her mother's affection. She breathed deep taking in her familiar discount soap scent. She pulled herself closer against the cushion of her breasts and luxuriated at her palm sweeping over her hair.

It helped. Comforted by the simple sensory triggers that took her back to being Andre's age, she remembered all the times she held her sensitive son the same way when he cried. _If my presence ever did for him what my mother's presence does for me, I can have peace in that,_ she told herself.

Little Terry took the stage, shining like a new penny with a fresh haircut and bow tie. Michonne dried her eyes and sat up straight anticipating the New Testament reading from the butter-skinned little boy who nearly lived at her house like Andre's twin.

When Reverend Stokes had asked him to practice reading the verses, he promised he would. Still, his grandmother had to threaten him more than once to get him to sit still long enough for a few read-throughs.

"' _Re-lavation_ ' 21 verses three to five," he began, unaware of his mispronunciation. "And I heard a great voice out of the throne saying, 'Behold, the tent of God is with men and he shall dwell with them and they shall be his peoples and God himself will be with them and be their God."

Terry smiled wide at Michonne having made it through the first verse without breaking a sweat. She returned the smile, her face emitting pride and hope for the handsome little rascal who loved to beg her for candy. She placed her palms together at her lips sending him every good thought she could conjure.

To look at him, you'd never know his best friend was gone. Maybe he was too young to understand that he would never see Andre again. Maybe he understood too well. Growing up following his big cousins through the streets he'd heard his fair share of gunshots and seen bodies laying in the road draped in white sheets.

Michonne remembered her daddy's words, _Ain't no mother crueler than the streets._

Terry excitedly shifted his weight on the plastic step stool allowing him to look out at the crowd. "And he shall wipe every tear from their eyes; and death will be no more; neither will mourning nor crying, nor pain any longer exist: for the former things have passed away."

Always one to put on a show, the young man raised his hand and voice for dramatic effect the way he'd seen other preachers perform in church. He shouted, making his voice produce a squeak on the first syllable, "And the one on the throne said, Behold!"

The audience smiled and people laughed like they always did whenever Terry inevitably found his way to the spotlight. He no longer looked down at the big bible in front of him as he trumpeted out the words he'd apparently memorized, "I make all things new! And he said to me, Write: because these words are true and faithful!"

Happy applause followed him from the stage and he ran straight into Michonne's arms. She plied him with kisses and sat him in her lap. shook his hand in congratulations, impressed with her grandson's friend. She wished she could have met Andre and her eyes went glassy thinking of lost time over stubborn pride.

Reverend Stokes blushed sheepishly having to follow the 'Terry Show'. "Terrance, you do my job better than me. Thank you for that fine reading." The reverend went on to promise, by the word of God, that our troubles would not last for all time.

"Where is pain? Where is mourning? Death? Not in heaven, but right here on earth. He said those things will soon be passed. He said they won't exist. No more funerals. No more caskets. No more guns. All things will be new. I didn't say it. The one on the throne did. He's got the power. The King has the power to make all things new. He says the words are faithful. He said 'write'! So you and I can have hope."

Gabriel was doing his job of stirring up those in attendance. As the callbacks from the churchgoers multiplied, a low rumble from outside perked Rick's ears and he looked to Carol wordlessly conveying his concern. It was the unmistakable sound of motorcycle engines filling the street just outside the church.

A gripping sense of dread came over Rick, causing sweat to bead his brow almost instantly. The kind of men who would come to a funeral like a thunderous herd on wheels would likely not be there for any good. Members of these outlaw syndicates preferred to be called 'motorcycle clubs', but in the sheriff's opinion they were gangs, plain and simple.

Many were vets, often dishonorably discharged, but trained soldiers nonetheless. Policing county fairs and bike shows, Rick had seen first-hand the chaos a band of road dogs could stir up with hardly any provocation. He'd met more than a few right-wing racists in half helmets decorated with skulls and symbols of the confederate. From the deafening vibration heralding dozens of bikes, Sheriff Grimes knew, he and his two deputies were sorely outnumbered.

He turned to see the crowd murmuring to one another as they slowly became aware of the disturbance converging in the street. Some of the men present at the service - stoop sitters and block kings - began standing up. It was obvious they were prepared to take matters into their own hands.

And just that quickly the church became nothing more than four walls and a roof in the minds of nearly everyone there. Rick closed his eyes, giving himself a second to push down the anger flaring up and steaming his shirt before he went outside to confront the disruption.

Gabriel paused his sermon to try and calm the audience. Terry's grandmother waved him over to her, holding him protectively between her knees. Andrea looked around for an exit as fear sent a tremor up the back of her throat. She found Maggie's fearful eyes a few rows back and suppressed the urge to scream. Ms. Mitchell tried to seem as fearless as the woman beside her.

"I know nobody better not fuck up my godson's service," Sasha whispered to herself, all the while hoping that someone actually was bold enough to try. She was still worked up from singing and ready for a fight.

She stood up, snatching out her earrings and tossed them into her purse. Tyreese grabbed one of her fiercely formed fists to stop her from stomping up the aisle to the unseen trouble. She glanced at him and then trained her eyes back toward the doors.

Michonne stood up, looking for Rick. Her wildly beating heart began to compete with the escalating tension in the room as she squeezed her perplexed mother's hand. Her mind kept going back to the terror she felt when a man she didn't know touched her as her house went up in flames. She felt that same surge of fury that made her attack Jared Collins when she thought of someone laying a hand on her mother that way.

A man's deep voice could be heard barking formation orders and, one by one, motors died. The sound of heavy boots approaching the other side of the door preceded a few seconds of jostling at the push-bar of the main entrance. Flicking away his holster's security strap with his thumb, Rick kept his finger resting lengthwise on his firearm.

Carol and Daryl left their positions on either side of the church coming to meet Rick at the row of double doors leading to the church lobby. Before they could get to the opening doors three large white men, covered in leather stitched with badges and insignia, were crossing the threshold.

A man with a tattooed head leaned in to another with a military buzz cut and spoke in a hush. The third man had long blonde hair like the man the police took into custody outside Michonne's place. All of them wore the same determined expression as they surveyed the congregants.

Rick was maintaining a level head. He could see the men were not armed, still their presence was disconcerting to say the least. He stepped softly over the carpeted church floor. He hoped the deep blood color under his boots was not an omen and said a silent prayer that he would have the fortitude and discernment to quash any altercation before it started.

But with Michonne, his sister and all the innocent people there he wasn't about to take any chances at all. He knew he was good enough and steady enough to draw, aim and put a bullet between three sets of eyes before his pulse could beat out a rhythm.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" Rick moved forward, decisive, yet cautious.

"Yeah, Rick..." Daryl called as he jogged up the aisle and came to stand in front of his boss. He reached out to shake the long-haired man's hand. "I know these guys. I ride with'um sometimes."

"We came to help," said the man as he regarded Rick sincerely, while shaking the young rookie's hand. "My old lady works in Governor Blake's office. She said some folks might wanna make trouble here today and you needed extra men. So here we are."

Relieved, Rick took a breath as he wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead and over his crown. The bald man put his riding gloved hand out in greeting. "Everyone of my guys volunteered to come and let me tell ya, they're all hard boiled rumblers. Anybody tryin' to spoil this baby's homegoin'll have to get through forty biker Vikings."


	19. Chapter 19: Permission to Speak

**Permission to Speak**

Sasha closed out the service with a final selection and much of the crowd dispersed quietly, wiping their eyes. As customary, close friends and family of the deceased moved slowly, singlefile, down to the basement of the church to share a meal of comfort.

Rick moved through the dispersing crowd, relieved that he could spend his time where he really wanted to be- as close to Michonne as possible. She was in the middle of a conversation with the reverend near the stage, but before he reached her a tap on his shoulder turned him around.

Gayle offered him a sweet smile. "Sheriff Grimes?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm Michonne's mother, Gayle."

"Yes ma'am. You are," Rick agreed in bashful awe as he took in the graceful beauty that he was sure Michonne would become in the future. "There ain't no mistakin' that. She looks just like you. Thank you so much for bein' here for her today."

"Those were some scary moments. I have the utmost respect for the men and women in your line of work. Everyone else panics, but you have to keep a cool head. That's almost a miracle these days."

"In all my years on the force, I can promise you this: Panic never helped any situation." Rick said as he helped the woman into her coat. "A cool head is the most important part of my uniform.

Michonne's mother seemed to slow the buttoning of her coat to really grasp what he had said. She snapped out of her thoughts. "I hope you don't mind my asking, Sheriff, but are you and my daughter... together? The news implies as much but you can't believe everything you see on TV."

"No, you can't," Rick agreed again, setting his eyes on Michonne once more, keeping watch. "But, yes ma'am, we are."

"That's wonderful. I'm happy for her. For you both. It's good to know that she hasn't been alone all this time since that thing with Micheal fell apart. How long have you two been seeing each other?" Gayle gave an awkward grin. The distance between her and her daughter had her severely out of the loop. "I'm sorry. Forgive me if I seem to be grilling you. I'm just trying to catch up."

Rick was not offended. "I understand," he said. "Honestly, we haven't been together long, but it's serious. I love your daughter, Miss Gayle. And I hope you'll forgive me sayin'... Michonne needs you. May not be my place, but cuttin' her out of your life has been hard on her. So I hope you plan on stayin' around now."

The smile on Gayle's face faded, "No, Sheriff, it certainly is not your place." Rick's head dropped, rethinking the way he'd worded what he'd said. He couldn't get an apology out before her mother added, "Michonne understands."

Something about that didn't sit right with Rick. "I'm sure she does," he said with more frustration than he could rein in. "She's the kindest, most understandin' person I know. But she deserves more than havin' to understand all the time."

Rick was tired of seeing Michonne in pain. She was tired and he was tired for her. The stress of the day, the revelations of the week and the circumstances of the moment, had him on edge and not on his best behavior. Still, he pulled himself together quickly.

"Miss Gayle, I only wanna protect Michonne. Please, listen, I'm not blamin' you. Michonne told me all about her dad and I'm sure this ain't easy for you either."

"Michonne told you about her father?"

Rick nodded silently, hoping that he didn't embarrass her. Domestic violence and spousal intimidation were things he witnessed day to day. He found that a lot of women, especially proud, intelligent women like Mrs. August, were ashamed of being victims.

He took a deep cleansing breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. His foot seemed to be constantly in his mouth with this woman. As first impressions go, he was sure this was a disaster.

"What, exactly, did she tell you about her father?"

"Well, ma'am, she told me it was bad enough that y'all had to leave and bad enough that you couldn't stay gone."

Gayle regarded him with a narrow gaze and a knit brow. People buzzed around the two of them as they stood still face to face. Rick felt his hairline dampen with sweat under her scrutiny.

Finally, Gayle's smile returned to her face. She patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Sheriff," she began sincerely, "I hear what you're saying loud and clear. I'm glad my baby has you in her corner."

Gayle left him standing there with more explanation and apology on the tip of his tongue. Relief settled on his shoulders and he went back to making a beeline for Michonne. But Gayle reached her and Sasha first. Michonne's mother gave her best friend a warm greeting and a long misty-eyed hug.

Rick saw Mrs. August speak sternly to Sasha as she held the younger woman's hand, delicately patting the back of Sasha's hand. The new blond's body language seemed to shrink, her shoulders drooping and eyes dropping. Rick wondered if Michonne told her mother how Sasha had been behaving.

He hoped Mrs, Gayle was reminding Sasha how true friends treat one another. He didn't see any of Sasha's buck back, so he hoped whatever Mrs. August was telling her would humble her. Just take her down a few pegs. Jesus, he thought.

Gayle turned to her daughter. Their foreheads met and they whispered to each other with deep nods and tear streaked faces. Rick still kept his distance not wanting to interrupt the cathartic moment.

As Mrs. August left, she gave Rick a knowing smile. She walked passed him, pulling on her lambskin gloves. "You stay safe, Sheriff. I'll be seeing you soon."

Michonne was now smiling through words with the Vikings, who had been the unlikely answer to Rick's prayers.

Michonne thanked the bikers who had come to render aid. They all humbly made her acquaintance and despite their mangy appearance, you'd be hard pressed to find a more respectful group of men.

"Miss Michonne, ma'am, we can't tell you how sorry we are for your pain. If it's anythang the Vikings can do to help you goin' forward, don't hesitate at all," Big Dave, the club's president, offered as Michonne and Sasha tried not to stare at the topless women and flames inked all over his scalp.

"That's so kind of you," Michonne addressed Big Dave, then all his friends. "It's so kind of you all. I don't know how to thank you. Would you all like to join us for the repast? Please."

The appetizing aroma of the warming food was filling the air, still Big Dave politely declined. "Ma'am, we're quite a crowd. Don't want to put y'all out. Me and the boys, we just…"

Michonne interrupted his refusal with a kind smile. "It would mean a lot to me." She felt Rick move to her side. His hand laid sweetly at her lower back and sending a wave through her both calming and electric. She turned to him to get his help in convincing the curious gentleman before them. "Rick, make them stay."

"My lady says y'all gotta stay, y'all gotta stay," Rick ordered, extending his hand in gratitude to Big Dave for a shake.

"Sounds like we gotta then," the large biker gave in. "After you, ma'am." He stood aside and let Michonne lead the way, followed by all the other Vikings.

Sasha watched them proceed, her mouth parted in amazement. It was quite the sight. Her best friend being shadowed by a ragtag group of redneck road dogs like a queen and her queensguard. Nowhere near as comfortable with Vikings as Michonne and Rick seemed to be, she still side-eyed them with extreme prejudice.

The mothers of the church stood proudly over the spread of food. The folding tables were relics of Gabriel's grandfather's time, their ancient battered state hidden under pristine white table cloths. Piping hot dishes lined the tabletops making mouths water and eyes widen.

Red beans and rice, seasoned baked chicken and candied yams painted the table with reds and oranges. String beans, collards and cabbage splashed the table with green. Golden dishes like buttery cornbread cut into squares, fried catfish and chicken, mac and cheese with crisp brown edges popped against the bland white of the table dressing.

Rick received a call from T-Dog. He was running the station in the sheriff's absence and he hated all the bureaucracy that came with the big desk. Rick winked a blue eye at Michonne before he stepped outside with his phone to his ear. He gave her a genuine smile. Not the terse-lipped nods he'd been trying to soothe her with when the day seemed more uncertain.

She was happy to see Rick a little more relaxed now that they could catch their breaths. Her spirits were surprisingly high as well. She thought she would barely survive this day. Every time she thought about it she felt like her stomach was full of motor oil and rocks.

But her mother still loved her. She seemed to be turning a corner with Sasha. Even though so many disembodied online posts and comments had hurtful things to say, real life flesh and blood people - strangers and friends - were showing her the kind of love that made a difference.

Everyone had pitched in. Church members, schools, local businesses. Michonne had no idea how much people cared. How hard everyone was taking the death of her son. Aaron was right, she had been isolating herself. In the delightful cocoon Rick had made for her, she felt safe. There was no reason to venture outside that warmth. But now she thought, _Maybe I can return that love somehow..._

Michonne looked over and noticed Sasha had left their table. It was easy to find her with her new hair color. Raj had come. Michonne saw the two of them conversing alone and when she caught Sasha's eye, Raj straightened his posture and followed Sasha over to the grieving mother.

The man was clean cut in a tailored navy suit, gold on his hands and wrists. He smelled of essential oils and seemed to glow. "Michonne, I'm so sorry, sis," he said, offering a hug. "I don't know what I can do, but if there's anything you need…"

"Thank you, Bob… I mean Raj."

He smiled with a slight twinge of disappointment, "It's okay, queen. Unless you understand my struggle to reach a divine plane, I know, I'll always be Bob."

"Chonnie," Sasha interjected, "Raj passed the bar last year. He works pro bono at the shelter on Jefferson.

"Yeah, I heard about that," Michonne nodded.

She'd heard about his accomplishment after a staff meeting at work. Two new junior associates were mocking Raj while brown-nosing one of the firm's partners. Michonne could hear them mocking the exonerated man saying that instead of the bar, ex-cons should have to take the 'behind bars' exam.

They didn't consider him a real lawyer. They hoped to square off with him and dominate him in the courtroom. She rolled her eyes at their disrespectful banter.

But Michonne thought that what Raj had done was amazing and she told him so now that she had him face to face. "Congratulations. That's farther than I ever got."

"I know you work in a big firm, Michonne," Raj said, "but if you ever need legal council, I have your back." Sasha looked at him, pushing him with her widened eyes to say more. But he had learned patience after so many years in the system. He changed the subject, "How are you doing otherwise?"

Before she could answer a short statured Viking with a long ginger goatee stole Sasha from their conversation.

"I just had to come tell you, you have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard."

"Thank you," Sasha said quickly and then turned back to her friends.

The man continued, "Beautiful eyes, too."

That comment got Raj and Michonne's attention. The three of them stood there, slightly puzzled at the man still grinning like an idiot.

"I'm Buster."

Rare as it was, Sasha seemed completely speechless.

"Buster," Raj responded to the man's flirtations, "Don't."

As if noticing the man standing right beside Sasha for the first time, Buster pulled himself out of her personal space. His eyes stayed on Raj now. "Oh, sorry buddy. I meant no disrespect. Is this your woman?"

"The black woman has been claimed as property by enough masters on this planet, don't you agree," Raj asked smoothly. Assuming the question was rhetorical, the man attempted to apologize again but Raj continued, "I said don't you think the black woman has had enough masters claiming her as property?"

Those within earshot of the tensing situation stopped their own conversations to listen more closely. Buster noticed the new attention and stuttered, "Didn't mean no disrespect, sir."

"Didn't answer my question either," Raj immediately countered with an eerie smile. "See, simply "meaning' no disrespect doesn't actually suspend disrespect.

"It's alright, Raj," Michonne said nervously. "He apologized."

"An apology doesn't rescind statements or actions no more than 'meaning' no disrespect does."

The mixed crowd around them seemed to hold their breath, waiting for whatever reply Buster would give. But instead of Buster, another Viking spoke up.

A taller brown-haired man with a slender frame addressed Raj, "Don't I know you?"

Recognition flashed in Raj's dark eyes. He put on another sinister smile. "E block?"

"Yeah. E block," the man confirmed. "West Georgia Correctional."

"A black kid's funeral is a strange place to find an A.C. member."

Sasha questioned Raj, "What's A.C.?"

"The Aryan Circle. A prison gang. White Nationalists." The information made Sasha's lip curl with disgust. Raj turned to Michonne, "When I was in prison, your friend here was a card-carrying member."

The former inmate's skin went from a fair complexion to red at being called out. He stuck his chest out and rasped in his defense, "We do what we gotta do to do our time, man. You know that."

"I know what? That to get through a bid it's necessary to fraternize with racist filth? No, I don't know that."

"Come on, brother…"

"Oh, now I'm your brother?"

"I don't believe in that bullshit…"

"Unless circumstances require you to?"

Tyreese stood up from their table and made his way over to the brewing confrontation. "Hey, Bob. Come on man. Let it go. These guys came to help."

Raj and the man in question stared each other down until Big Dave came up from his collard greens. "Whitlow! Buster! You boys should be ashamed."

Michonne finally heard Rick's voice a few feet away as he also came to intervene. "Ain't no reason for none of us to be at odds."

Raj turned in Rick's direction. He decried the sheriff, "Now, here comes the law. So many wolves in sheep's clothing here today."

Michonne took offense. She cocked her head, ready to defend her man. "Hold on, Raj."

Sasha saw her best friend was getting upset. "Raj! Maybe we should get some air," she suggested trying to muzzle her guest.

"All are welcome in God's house," Gabriel announced in goodwill.

Raj shot back, "Even if it's the devil?"

"God's way is love."

"See, I never understood that, reverend. 'Love your enemies', right," Raj asked, disappointed by the sentiment. "And while we're loving our enemies, we're also burying our babies."

"Raj!" Sasha grabbed him by the arm, leading him to the nearest door. "Let's go."

"One thing about a wolf in sheep's clothing," Raj said to everyone in attendance as Sasha ushered him out, "they can only fool sheep."

Gabriel was able to settle everyone down, still a combustible fog hung heavy in the air. It wouldn't take more than a misinterpreted glance to ignite the issue of race again. Everyone could feel it. None more so than the Vikings in the room.

Big Dave thought it best they all leave. He apologized to Michonne for the uproar. He'd come with the best intentions but instead of keeping conflict at bay, he'd brought the fox right into the henhouse. He acknowledged with deep regret that the men he rode with were not angels by any stretch of the imagination.

They all had pasts, done things they weren't proud of, things he couldn't defend. All he could do was apologize, as hollow as that was- especially after what Raj said. But he apologized all the same.

Rick discharged Carol and Daryl. He knew they wouldn't accept any thanks for being there. So he simply said he'd see them later. Aaron and Eric were gone, having no palate for soul food. Maggie was called away to work and Andrea left with plans to meet one of the more handsome Vikings for a drink.

Eventually, all the white faces dissolved in the crowd like grains of salt until only Rick was left.

Michonne hated to admit it, but the strain she was feeling with under the eyes of the assorted company was not helping her stress. If she was honest, it always felt that way. She had never found a comfortable place at work unless she found herself in the breakroom with the janitor. Once she had a very down-to-earth conversation with the woman who restocked the vending machines.

The only caucasian she knew that didn't make her feel that way was Rick. Maybe it was because the very first time she met him she had been too deep in her heartbreak to keep up appearances. Or maybe it was because the first real conversation was an actual real conversation.

Flaws were upfront that night on Sasha's couch. Both of them were so raw with emotion and too battered in life to touch any kind of mask to their open wounds. For Michonne though, it was as simple as finding her soulmate in strange skin. She was comfortable and safe around Rick because the shared the same heart.

In a world as fierce as this one, finding another heart that spoke to hers in the same unassuming, gracious dialect was like hurtling through space and finding another version of planet Earth on the other side of the universe.

She was ready to leave soon after the cakes, cobblers and pies were laid out. Rick went ahead of her out the church doors. His arms were full of wrapped dishes that the servers had made for Michonne. Three more young men were toting hefty aluminum foil pans stacked up to their chins.

Michonne climbed into Rick's truck and slouched in the seat, leaning her head against the glass. He finally joined her, sliding in behind the wheel. Their fingers intertwined across the middle console, they slowly pulled away from the building. Both were as silent as the muted radio, distant in their own thoughts and content with just being alone together.

He looked over at Michonne and brought her hand up to his lips when he spotted a dark hooded figure in his peripheral stepping in front of the truck.

"Shit," he cursed, slamming on the brakes. Michonne called his name in a start. The thin layer of snow on the cold asphalt caused his tires to slide a half inch further than they should have. Rick recognized the burgundy college sweatshirt, but the face buried in its hood was very different from its owner.

"Oh my god. Shane?" Rick put the car in park and jumped down from the driver's seat. The wild look of his best friend made him approach cautiously. "Hey, man… you okay?"

"I couldn't come inside the church man." Shane pushed the words out past his teeth, his bearded face balling up with pain. He kept his hands in the pouch of his shirt and rocked himself side to side, not making eye contact with Rick.

"That's okay, man. I'm just happy to see you," Rick spoke softly and took another step. Michonne watched with worry through the windshield.

"You won't be." Shane go those words out and the levee holding back his emotions failed. He sputtered through his tears, nearly incoherent. "I let you down, brother… the whole department. It's a shit show. We can't be friends no more after I tell you this… but…" he pounded his fist in his palm with intensity, "I.. still… gotta… tell you."

"Is it about Merle? About what happened to her son?" Rick glanced to Michonne and Shane's eyes followed. He broke down even more. Sobbing, his gaunt unkempt face deepening its shade of red. The hairs around his mouth, wet with tears and nose drip like a toddler.

"We… He…"

Shane's chest was heaving like a monster was trying to escape his ribcage. Rick decided quickly that he wouldn't make his friend verbalize that trauma. He could see it ripping this man apart. Rick attempted to pull that demon off of his heart.

"I already know. Daryl told me."

Shane looked stunned and sick. Still staring mindlessly at the brick wall of the church behind Rick, his voice cracked, "And… does she… know?"

"No."

The monster reclaimed Shane's chest, his nostrils flared and his jaw flexed. He turned from Rick and began a quickmarch to the truck's passenger side. Rick tried to call him back.

"I don't want her to know. She doesn't need that on her, man. Shane! Stop!"

But the weeping man pulled open her door before Rick could stop him. "Miss August. You don't know me."

Michonne looked to Rick, who was visibly shaken. The sight of him so rattled made her panic. She looked back to the woolly man under her nose. Her brow raised in concern, she climbed from the cab of the truck and met Shane face to face .

"This is Shane Walsh, Michonne," Rick said almost regretfully.

Still confused by her even-tempered man's change in demeanor, she extended her hand to Shane. "Hello, Deputy Walsh."

Shane took her hand and held on. Immediately he dropped to his knees on the frozen ground. "I know I got no right to be here." He groaned out, "Or to… even… speak."

"Shane," Rick cautioned him again, his eyes shifting between him and Michonne.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry your little boy is gone. You gotta understand, I'm not a bad guy. People think that wearin' the badge makes me brave. But I been scared all my life."

Rick had never heard Shane say anything like that before. His best friend hated cowards. He was always the first one running through the door of the most dangerous situations. Rick never saw Shane panic… except that one time, in the hospital.

That time had nothing to do with his job, but Rick would never forget the overwhelmed expression in Shane's eyes as he stared into a plexi-glass box. The blue glow of UV lights and the cords and tubes crawling all over delicate wrinkled skin had him terrified. He looked lost then.

He looked lost now as he shivered under Michonne's watery eyes. "Miss August, I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to…" Shane couldn't even say what he'd done.

Michonne had been bearing everything with all the grace and dignity she could muster. It was modeled to her from an early age by Gayle August. Her mother was always sweet. Always well mannered. Always soft. Always forgiving.

Even when Gayle was upset, she smiled through her anger. Even when she reprimanded, she did it with care. Michonne admired those qualities in her mother. Mostly, because they were the total opposite of her father's bombastic fury.

Deputy Walsh was one of the men she had been hoping to see. One of the men she'd been worried about. A man who could use some comfort after such a gut-wrenching mistake.

But as she listened to Shane sputter out pleas for forgiveness and blubber about what he didn't mean to do, Raj's words filled her head like dark clouds in a stormy sky. _An apology doesn't rescind statements or actions… While we're loving our enemies, we're also burying our babies..._

Those words had already taken root in her consciousness. She could feel that phrasing activating every single strand of Sergeant Instructor Hugh August DNA in her body. She could feel it setting fire to fuses in her shoulders, in her knees, in her chest. Running sparks raced through her limbs, exploding behind her sternum.

Her lips drew tight when Shane said, "Andre didn't deserve that. If I could trade places with him I would."

Andre's name on those guilty foreign lips made her snap. She brought her hand down across Shane's face with as much force as she could. The momentum of her open hand knocked his teeth around like a rattle, whipping his head and throwing him off balance. He fell over on all fours, stunned.

Rick took a hesitant step forward, "Michonne!" He wasn't sure what to do. After what Daryl told him about Shane's blindsided involvement in the shooting, he didn't want to see his best friend tormented anymore than he had been. He could see how terrible Shane felt. On the other hand, he also wanted some kind of catharsis for his angel.

Michonne's palm sizzled. She balled it into a fist and held it with her other hand. Staring at Shane on the ground, she could hear a ringing in her ears and not much else. She tried to calm down. But she couldn't.

Deputy Walsh was breathing heavy and erratic. The warm air misted out of his blood tinged mouth into the cold. It reminded her of the wonder of her baby's face in Colorado, when the air in front of him turned to fog as his heart-shaped lips formed an O shape with his measured exhale.

All Michonne could think about was that Shane was breathing and Andre never would again.

 _While we're loving our enemies, we're also burying our babies…_

Michonne catapulted her foot into Shane's ribs. "You don't say his name," she shouted like a madwoman. Her feet and fists coming down like a hail storm over every inch of Deputy Walsh that she could reach. "You don't ever say his name! You fuck! You fucking peice of shit! Don't say his name! Ever! Ever!"

Rick jumped to grab her. "Michonne! Baby! Baby!" Moving around the car door, he pulled her still flailing body close to his chest. He immobilized her arm inside a strong bearhug. Her feet continued to kick out.

The only way to stop her was to lift her off the ground and wedge her tight between his body and the passenger seat of his truck. She was stronger than he thought and it took all his strength to keep her off of Shane. She squirmed and squealed to be released, desperate and in agony. Rick realized he wouldn't be able to settle her while her target was in sight.

"Shane! Get out of here!" Rick's voice was gravelly and harsh, but the sadness mingled in his tone was easily recognized by the man shielding himself on the ground. "Just go!"

Shane's eyes bounced between Rick's familiar sympathetic blues and the rage in the ghostly beautiful eyes of the woman who was trying to beat him to death. The woman whose son he'd killed. And if he knew anything about Rick Grimes, the way he was cradling Michonne with his lips pressed to her hairline, she was also the woman his best friend had fallen in love with.

He got to his feet. "I'm sorry," Shane said, knowing it wouldn't mean a thing. But he said it anyway because his heart was being ripped apart in bloody chunks inside his chest. "I'm sorry."

Michonne tried to lunge at him again and Rick shouted for him to leave as he tightened his hold and she buried her face under his chin.

"It's okay," the sheriff promised Shane with a more gentle. "Just go."

"I know…" The deputy's face sobered to stone. He wanted his next words to stick. "I know you can't be a friend to me after what I done. Not the way things are now," he told Rick. "I would never get in the way of your happiness, brother."

Rick tried to offer him something positive, "Shane, I…" His words stalled out. He was at a loss.

Shane offered him something positive instead. A smile, though weak and under dead eyes, it was reminiscent of his signature mischievous grin.

"We had some good times, though didn't we?" Shane apologized one final time. "I know. I understand… and I'm sorry.

Both of them held each other's gaze. In life, they were closer than brothers. They could read all the creases and wrinkles of the other's features and know precisely… everything.

After a few moments of silent communication, Shane walked away slowly through the parking lot.


	20. Chapter 20: A Real Gem

**A Real Gem**

White collar shirts, striped navy ties and burgundy blazers filled the school cafeteria. The lunchroom tables were in an uproar thanks to Negan Jeffries' black-haired, velcro buzz cut sporting little spawn, Lucien. As always, he was stirring the pot with his lackies, Spencer Monroe and Jaxson Cole. The hormone and antibiotic free chicken and quinoa meal was as colorless as the group of young men to whom it was served, though their faces were red from laughter.

"Do you call her mammy?" A random kid chimed in just to be noticed by the most popular boys in school.

"You sound stupid right now. She doesn't even look like a mammy," the shortest of the trio said. With his grey eyes, sprinkle of brown freckles and thick disheveled golden mop, Jax, always added a depraved sexual element to any harassment being doled out.

He usually got the biggest laughs from the spectators who stood around watching him and his friends bully whomever they chose for the day.

"Those big black lips would be perfect pressed up against my cock," the little turd said and closed his eyes, bobbing his open hand over his crotch to simulate a sex act.

Carl had managed to fly under their radar as the new kid at the prestigious private school, Woodbury Academy. But, since it became public knowledge that Michonne and his father were together, the recipient of their animosity had been the small town sheriff's son.

He didn't want to be there, but his mother insisted and Philip greased the wheels to facilitate the transfer despite Carl's pleas to stay with his friends in public school. So he protested the only way he could- with an unpleasant attitude and antisocial behavior.

The sheriff's son sat alone at the next table, staring into his untouched food tray.

"You should bring her to my next party," Lucien suggested with an evil grin as he gulped a Gatorade. "She can twerk on a pole for change."

Another boy further down the table corrected with glee, "No. Black hoes dance for EBT cards!"

The cafeteria erupted in laughter and a few boys started banging on the table and stomping out a trap music beat for Jax to do his best video vixen imitation.

"I shot the sheriff..." Jax sang to the tune of the Bob Marley classic in an irksome falsetto, "...then I banged his step-mommy."

Spencer pushed his fingers through his cropped brown curls. "You can't pay for this school with an EBT card, baby sheriff." The boy was obsessed with status and money. His mother was the mayor and his father was the city's top developer.

The kid believed his father's rhetoric that there were two kinds of people in the world: People who chase money and people who make money. Money-makers were the only ones that mattered.

Again, to the pounding beat of fists on table tops, Jax belted out, "I shot the sheriff..."

"You'll have to go back to that ghetto public school once your dad gets fired," Lucien said with a condescending nonchalance.

"...then I banged his step-mommy."

Carl had had enough. He shot out of his seat, his chest heaving in fury. "Come and make me leave now, you piece of shit!"

Lucien scooped a spoonful from his plate and responded coolly, "Nah, baby sheriff. At the moment, I'm having too much fun." He took aim and catapulted the contents to the next table where Carl stood, fuming. The warm casserole mixture splattered across the outnumbered boy's cheek.

Immediately Carl picked up his entire metal food tray and swung it squarely into his bully's face. Spencer stood up and charged Carl, shoving him backwards over his seat. Lucien's nose trickled red through the mess on his face as he wiped the mush away. Jax looked on with wide eyes while the other bystanders egged on the fray.

Carl quickly made it to his feet just before Lucien could kick him while he was down. Returning Spencer's move, Carl bulldozed the mayor's son. He landed flat on his back, on top of the table. Young Grimes kept his head down while he landed a succession of blows to the pinned boy's ribs.

"You fuckin' redneck," Lucien shouted as he stole a wallop to Carl's head, stunning him and freeing Spencer in the process.

The clang of food trays and overturning chairs brought the two feeble cafeteria attendants racing over on geriatric legs. Mr. Simpson's wisps of white hair were whirled in disarray when he grabbed Carl by the arm to bring him to heel and the boy knocked him to the floor.

The math teacher cried out in pain when he landed awkwardly on his arm. His clipped nose dramaticized the whole ordeal even further. The escalating free-for-all was effectively quelled when the crowd of boys saw his mustache darkened with red.

In all the commotion, what Carl thought was a blow defending himself against his classmates, ended up putting Mr. Simpson in a sling for a fractured ulna.

"You boys stop it now," Mr. Simpson gave a muffled shout, one hand holding his nose. A few remorseful students and the other adult present helped him from the floor as he held his hurt arm close to his body. With circumstances deteriorating so seriously, everyone cast denouncing eyes upon Carl, as if the whole thing started and ended with him.

"Let's go, Grimes." A security guard jerked Carl away. "You're a real gem aren't ya," he quipped sarcastically as other members of the staff corralled the rest of the students and began to clean up the mess left behind.

XXX

Carl sat dejected and slumped in the visitor's chair facing Dean David Tobin's desk. The young Grimes shirt was stained and his hair looked like a bird's nest. Lori sat to his left nervously keeping herself occupied with a search for lip balm in the bottom of her purse.

Rick sat to his right, elbows resting on his knees, in anticipation of an explanation of what disciplinary action would be taken against his son. He couldn't imagine the kind-hearted little boy he had raised would've instigated a fight.

Lately, though, adolescence was making his sweet boy disagreeable in a way that he couldn't have inherited from either of his parents. Rick narrowed his eyes at his son, bracing himself to lose a little face, but held his tongue until he got the full story.

"Mr. Grimes and Mrs. Blake, I appreciate you both coming so quickly and taking this as seriously as we do here at Woodbury," the school's dean, Dr. Tobin said.

"I'll be frank, the only reason why your son has the opportunity to be here at all is because of a favor to the governor. I don't know Philip Blake personally, but he is a friend of Lucien Jeffries' father and the mayor. Mr. Jeffries and Governor Blake want this to be resolved without too many complications. But it's hard to look over an assault on a staff member."

"Assault," Lori questioned, looking up from her bag.

"Yes, Mrs. Blake. School policy regards this incident as an assault. Mr. Simpson has a fractured bone in his arm and while he isn't pressing any criminal charges, our institution does not take such matters lightly."

Carl rolled his eyes. "I told you a million times, I didn't mean to hit him."

Rick interrupted his son, "What about the other boys? The boy that hit my son in the face with his food. That's assault too."

Indifferent, Dr. Tobin countered, "That young man has been dealt with. But I think we all can agree, a soiled shirt is not the same as a broken bone."

Rick tensed angrily. Frustrated he was unable to champion him the way he wanted, he looked at his son. Carl looked defeated and Lori looked tired. "So what's his punishment," Sheriff Grimes asked with a sneer.

"A week's suspension."

Lori rolled her eyes and dropped her face in the palm of her hand. "Great," she groaned. Raising her head, she looked at Rick disappointedly.

He leaned forward and dropped his eyes to the brim of his sheriff's hat as he turned it restlessly between his fingers.

Lori turned her attention to Carl. She demanded quietly, "How could you be so ungrateful? Do you understand how much this school costs Philip every month? How many strings he pulled to get you here?"

"I never asked him to," Carl mumbled back into his chest. "I hate it here."

"You're not in a position to complain about the opportunities you've been given. Philip has put you on a path to one of the top firms on Wall Street. You need this school. All you have to do is show up and behave and let Philip's name do the rest for you. You'll be a millionaire before other kids your age finish college. Isn't that what you want?"

"No. That's what _you_ want."

Dr. Tobin interjected, "Carl, I know a brand new environment takes time to get used to, but…"

"Seems to me the problem ain't the stress of a new environment," Rick pointed out, discarding any civility. "There's no reason this situation should've turned physical if the staff here would've taken some kind of action against these bullies. That's the problem. The staff, these entitled little shits and their fuckin' parents!"

"Nice language, Rick," Lori hid her face, ashamed. She eyed the dean apologetically.

"Well, feel free to jump in any time to defend our son here, Lori."

Dr. Tobin spoke up, "Our students' parents are some of the wealthiest people in the state and our teachers are dedicated to the children in their care. And I think it's very hypocritical of you, Sheriff Grimes, to imply any different given the fact that the children under your jurisdiction are being gunned down by the police you oversee."

The anger drained from Rick's face, replaced by a look of stunned realization. Lori grimaced at how that comment must have stung her ex-husband's pride. Rick stood up and Carl braced himself in his chair nervously.

Concerned by the looks on the other parties' faces, the dean's heart began to race. Tobin shakily got to his feet, thinking if the sheriff laid into him like Carl went at his schoolmates, he'd better be standing up.

Then he remembered that the gunbelt of Rick's uniform was carrying a gun- just like it was made to. Tobin cleared his throat and quickly sat down with his hands flat on his desk.

His mouth went dry and his voice was decidedly more timid when he said, "Sheriff, I meant no disrespect. It's my hope that your son's time here is a success, as I'm sure it is yours. I'll have a talk with the staff to see how we can better assist Carl in adjusting." Tobin smiled politely.

Rick nodded in acceptance even as his nostrils flared and the tendons in his arms flexed. He grabbed his jacket off the chair. "Let's go, son." Father and son left without another word.

Lori replicated the dean's awkward smile. "Well, so much for first impressions," she said with a nervous titter. "Rick really is a good dad. He's just a natural protector but he's under a lot of stress right now…"

"I can imagine so. But realistically, Mrs. Blake, if he's going to pursue such a high profile relationship, especially now, there's going to be some difficulties for him and your son."

"Well, I wouldn't be too concerned with that. Let's be realistic. That's bound to fizzle out. It's infatuation at best. In the meantime," Lori raised an optimistic brow, "instead of notifying Philip and I, would you mind reaching out to Sheriff Grimes with any concerns that may come up with Carl… I think it'll do Rick good to focus on the more important things in his life. Don't you agree?"

XXX

While Carl went collecting homework assignments from all his teachers for his week's absence, Rick stood outside the old school to cool off. Above him the American flag rolled in waves on the wind. Leaning against the stair rail, he closed his eyes and invoked Michonne's sweet smile and touch.

He wondered how she was doing.

 _Is she tapping those lips of hers with the tip of her index finger like she does when she's not sure how to word things? When she's scared,"_ he hummed out a private chuckle _, "she wrings her hands. She's so brave. Hopefully, Hershel is doing all the talking... Hopefully, he's making her laugh with that unique brand of southern charm and chivalry. She took to him so easily. Thank God. Still, I know it wasn't easy for her to…_

"Rick," Lori broke into his meditations, the skinny heels of her boots stomping across the concrete. He looked up and saw the determined expression on her face and sighed through a deep breath.

Rick was ready. He came at her before she could close the distance between them. "Is this what a little power does to people, Lori? Are you really that addicted to status and the name Philip Blake that you would hang your own son out to dry like that?"

"I'm trying to do what's best for him Rick. I'm trying! He's not gonna grow up and work some job that'll let him go on a whim. Some underappreciated hick town cop. He's not gonna have to worry about getting shot or shooting somebody. He's going to be important and respected by important and respected people."

Rick just looked at her speechless. "You know, you sound just like your mother." He scoffed, knowing the comparison would cut her deep.

"When she said that's the kind of life she wanted for you, you told her whether I made the majors or not, you were stickin' with me. Now, you're standin' here, in your fancy suede boots regurgitatin' Kathy's words to me… about our son," his voice piercing on a low register for emphasis on who she was hurting.

"Rick, this isn't about me and you. This is about…"

"Trust me. I know that, Lori. There is no me and you. This is just about you. About you pushin' Carl for your own greed and selfish ideas." Rick was so frustrated, he could barely keep his focus. "He needs to be back in therapy. That kid needs more help than either of us can give him. You pretendin' that that ain't the truth is only hurtin' him more."

"Oh come on, Rick. We dragged him to those sessions for a month after we told him about the divorce. He was just a little down in the dumps and it wasn't anything that some good old fresh air and fun couldn't cure," Lori insisted what she always had. Her tone was sarcastic. "He's not some troubled kid who cries all the time and needs help with sorting through his 'feelings'."

Rick's mind boggled at her shallow way of thinking. He drawled on a humorless laugh, "Jesus…"

"I'm his mother. I know what he needs. The court thinks so, too."

"No," Rick raised his voice over hers, "The judges belong to Philip and you used my drinkin' against me."

"Not me, Rick. That was his lawyers. I said in court that you were probably better..."

"Yeah, very convincin'. You know, I wouldn't take another drink if someone put a gun to my head!"

"Well…" Lori sounded apologetic, "It's hard to find a judge that isn't loyal to Philip. I told you not to press the issue of custody. Just like I'm telling you not to dig yourself a whole with this woman."

"Don't."

"I know you won't listen. So I'm not gonna try." She rolled her eyes. "I'm changing the subject. I think you'll like what I have to say for once."

She paused a beat, waiting for him to inquire with some enthusiasm. Rick just gave her a vicious side eye and waited for her to explain. Giving up hope for any reaction from him, she continued,

"I think Carl should stay with you during his suspension."

Rick's initial blank expression morphed into one of exasperation and ire. He shook his head. "A few weeks ago you threatened to stop him from coming over at all and now you… What the hell's your angle here, Lori?"

"Angle?" Lori did a pitiful job of playing shocked and offended. She waited for Rick to question her further, but he just stood there with those blue eyes of his doing an excellent job of conveying his annoyance.

She hated when he turned to stone. She wanted him to argue, press her, simply engage her in some meaningful way. He didn't.

She figured once his new girlfriend got a taste of his cold shoulder, especially while she's in mourning, their relationship would fizzle just as quickly as it started. Pulling her heavy cashmere coat on tighter, she sucked her teeth and answered him.

"There's no angle, Rick. I suggested that because you said there could be trouble. I was the one who told you that you were overreacting and I was right. Nothing happened at the funeral, did it?"

Rick held his tongue about that. Lori shoved her hands into her pockets and squeezed her shoulders together for warmth. She brought out a pack of cigarettes, pulled one from the pack with her teeth and lit the end with a long drag.

"Look." She blew out smoke. "Carl is not a fan of my husband and I'm sure you can guess that after this Philip will be none too pleased with him either. Something has gotten into that son of yours and it's like a full time job keeping him and Philip from barking at each other like a pair of dogs. It's not good for my ulcer."

She continued, trying to take the attention off herself, "I'd think you'd be happy."

"About your ulcer," he asked sarcastically with a sniff. This time Lori was much more convincingly shocked and offended. Stepping around her to stand upwind of her smoke, Rick looked back into the building hoping to see his son coming down the long corridor.

"Oh, you mean about Carl," he played the fool. "I am." He spied his son moping their way and was happy to wrap up this conversation. He started to walk away from Lori.

"And Rick… I don't think it's a good idea for you to have any adult sleepovers while he's there."

He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. Her audacity tightening his jaw, he dared her to say it again, "What?" His posture changed entirely and the look he gave her conveyed the idea that a better idea would be for her to keep her good ideas to herself.

"Nothing. Forget it." She shook her head. "I know he's in good hands," she said, pounding her feet quickly to her car.

XXX

Michonne reached for the porcelain tea cup and saucer being handed to her. She sat nervously on the Queen Anne couch and offered a thankful smile to the white haired man who turned to make his way back to his chair.

"I thought Rick was gonna come with you? I mean it's good that you're here regardless, but..."

"Actually, he had to go to Carl's school… again. I think it was kinda serious. He had to meet with the dean this time."

Herschel winced, feeling sorry for Rick's trouble but he looked on the bright side of things. "Well, at least you didn't reschedule."

Michonne smiled guiltily, "I wanted to, but Rick encouraged me to come without him. He said I've been doing all the work… he thinks I'm so brave…" Michonne scoffed at that estimation.

"I think so too."

"It's only because of him."

"Why do you say that?"

"I want to do the work so I can be there for him too. Everyone has moved on but there are still certain people who think they can benefit politically by making an example out of him and his department. They want to take the job he loves away from him. So that's hanging over his head. He used to talk to Deputy Walsh about problems at work, but now…" Michonne shrugged sadly, too affected to finish the sentence.

"I think he won't tell me much because he doesn't want me to feel like it's my fault. And dealing with Carl is no picnic for him either." She was like a faucet, pouring out everything weighing on her mind. "Of course, Carl hates me and his dad is just at his wit's end because he didn't raise his son to be that way. Sometimes Rick goes out and stays for hours. He doesn't tell me what he's doing and I feel like it isn't my place to ask."

"He just really needs someone in his corner right now." Michonne pushed a cleansing exhale from her lips over the complicated nature of it all, then she smiled. "But even with all that, he looks at me and I know he loves me so much and I love him. This thing we have is so special, I can't risk sabotaging it with my grief."

"Well, I really don't see that happening Michonne," Herschel said with certainty. "Like Rick says, you've been doing the work. You're sharing here with me and in your support group. You're reaching out to help others in grief and making friends. And I know Rick appreciates your supporting him the way you do." He paused and gave her a moment to think about how well she was doing. "Speaking of friends, is Sasha..."

Knowing the question, Michonne answered quickly, "No. Haven't heard from her much since the funeral. I thought we were going to go back to how it used to be between us. But she's different now. When I do see her she seems... strange. Even her brother hasn't seen much of her. He says he barely recognizes her. She's deep into Raj's rhetoric now, calls herself a "soldier of the tenets"."

Michonne shrugged. "But this is what she does, she shuts down. My only connection to her is Tyreese right now. He's trying to help us bridge the gap but…" she sipped her tea, "Sasha is Sasha. I'm here if she wants to reach out."

Herschel nodded, pleased with her progress. When she first started coming, being deserted by her best friend and parents filled her eyes with tears. Now she could say,

"Same with my parents. My mom has been calling just to check on me and say hello. We had lunch a few times. But my father… If he wants to keep pretending I don't exist," she said firmly, "he can."

Herschel swiped at his white beard and agreed, "He certainly can, if he chooses. You have choices too."

"I know. Like you said, there is no closure to losing my son, but I can create a new world for myself and fill it with good things. Rick tells me 'conquer evil with the good'. So I'm doing that. I understand my father wanted more for me in life, but I made the choice to be a mother and I don't regret it."

"And he has to make the choice to be a father. It's not just about paternity," Hershel added.

Michonne smiled, understanding exactly what he meant. Little Judith didn't have a drop of Rick's blood in her veins, still she called him almost everyday. He listened to her happily and his smile wore on long after they would hang up.

Her mere existence was a constant reminder of one of the worst chapters in his life. But it didn't matter. Regardless of how she came to be, she was a bright spot in his life. It takes a uniquely positive perspective to see things like that, she'd learned.

Michonne leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, feeling the tension in her muscles relax. She always felt nervous stepping into Dr. Green's office, but in no time, he'd reassure her with his kindness and encouragement that she was in a judgement-free space.

Hershel was doing penance. He never would have thought his time embroiled in the slaughter of Vietnam could be used to help anybody. Definitely not a young, black, college educated single mother.

But his battles with PTSD had stolen his family before PTSD was a thing. He knew what it was like to lose a child because of the violence of this world. He used that to help Michonne heal from the loss of her murdered son.

He also knew what the United States military could turn a man, a father, into. He knew the control that came with commanding a platoon of men was hard to let go. He helped her understand her hard-boiled father and with that understanding she was unshackling herself from his expectations of her.

But most amazing of all, he was helping her invest fully in a brand new romance with the white sheriff of a redneck town. The life-long connection Hershel developed with his brothers in arms after their first day of basic training was not unlike the relationship between Rick and Michonne.

The two of them bunkering down together and dressing each other's emotional wounds, taking turns keeping watch and fighting back any and all threats to the world they were building could bind them together in an unbreakable way if they let it.

"So tell me more about your interactions with Carl?"

"Besides him rolling his eyes when I enter the room, there are no interactions between me and Carl. I feel so much like an intruder when he's there. But still, I'm glad his mom decided not to keep him away from Rick."

"Carl might be the trickiest part of this whole equation."

"He just might be," she said on a deep bolstering breath. "The scary part is... and this will sound terrible, but... I look at him and sometimes…" she lowered her voice, "I'm glad the only Andre I'll ever know is the sweet, helpful little guy who always wanted hugs and kisses. You know?"

"That ain't terrible at all. I think at some point every parent wishes they could shrink their rebellious teen back down to before they could talk."

Hershel thought about his Beth and how she could hurt him with the simplest flippant comment. Granted, she was navigating adolescence while living with a shell-shocked soldier. Still, those years in the Green household were like P.O.W. torture.

Michonne smiled at him and raised a wishful brow. "If I could get him to talk to me at all, that would definitely be progress."

"Well, don't push him. Just try to make him feel safe." Hershel smiled as Michonne brought her cup to her lips again. "Sometimes a cup of tea works like a charm."

XXX

"This is bullshit!" Carl shrugged his book bag on his back, snatched up his duffle bag and slammed the car door. Rick scowled as he watched his son stomp up his walkway and push angrily into the house. Michonne's eyes went from Carl to his frustrated father.

Placing her hand on his, she stopped him from going after the boy with a reprimand. She softly reassured him, "He'll be okay, Rick." Her smile was warm but he could see the worry in her eyes and he didn't like it. "He's not happy at that new school. You said so yourself. Maybe this break will be good for him."

Rick exhaled deeply, allowing her to ease his mind for the moment. He could only imagine the fallout that would ensue if she wasn't there to stop them from butting heads. He looked into her dazzling brown eyes and realized for the thousandth time that she was truly a rare gem in the mire of his life.

He and Carl were so alike, it scared him at times. They both hated injustice. The only difference between them was that Rick had lived long enough to know that injustice encompasses a broad frame, whereas Carl seemed to think that all the unfairness in the world only happened to him.

"He's mad at the world right now. We can't take it personal."

"Yeah, baby. I know… and I get it. But that much anger is dangerous," Rick stressed. "Do you know how many guys I have to arrest because they can't control their anger? And his…"

Rick bit down on his bottom lip, trying to keep the f-bomb from exploding. "His mother… Lori doesn't like to hear anything that clouds her 'perfect little world'," he threw up air quotes. "I tried to tell her, but she never wanted to admit that he needed counseling after everything that happened between us. She turned him against the idea too."

"I'm sure it would be hard for her to admit that what she did hurt him so much. Doctor Green says that's a mother's worst fear. Our urge to protect is so strong, feeling like we are to blame for our children's suffering sometimes pushes us to extremes."

"Livin' in a world of make believe is quite an extreme."

"Well, Doctor Greene says I was holding on to my guilt about Andre. That was my extreme. Ignoring the problem altogether is another. But she can't ignore what happened today."

"You don't know Lori." Rick scoffed. "That's why she asked me to take him now. Because him getting suspended from school doesn't fit into the image of the governor's mansion."

Michonne frowned, shocked by the obvious truth of that statement. "Damn, Rick. That's fucked up."

Equally caught off guard by her quickly developing pottymouth, they exchanged poorly hidden grins. They were trading places, it seemed, when it came to bad language. Michonne's introduction of a swear jar into the house had curtailed Rick's cursing significantly, but weeks of his bad influence had already rubbed off on her.

Clearing her throat, she glossed over her four letter word before he could comment. "Maybe I can talk to him. Tell him how much therapy has helped me. Tell him how great Doctor Green is."

"That's mighty brave of you."

"He reminds me of Tyreese at that age. When their daddy left, he had that same permanent pout. He used to talk to me about his feelings."

"Be my guest." Rick extended his arm in the direction of the temperamental teen. He tugged one of her locs and joked, "Just make sure you hit that swear jar on the way."

Michonne rolled her eyes, but she was satisfied if her slip of the tongue could lighten his mood. They walked into the house and Carl passed them on the way to his room carrying a snack. They could hear the music screaming from his ear pods. He wouldn't even look their way.

Michonne pulled a handful of change from her coat pocket. As she counted out a dollar, she second guessed her ability to make a connection with Carl, especially with everything going on. _But with everything going on,_ she reasoned _, we can't just ignore him either._

She dropped the coins in the jar and sighed. Fuck, she said inwardly. Reaching back into her pocket, she counted out more change.


	21. Chapter 21: Easily Spooked

**Easily Spooked**

At dinner Carl rolled his eyes when he was asked to remove his earphones. When he was engaged in conversation he grumbled out short answers and gave no eye contact.

He also had to be reminded that he was no longer in the governor's house. There was no paid chef. There was no maid. Rick informed his son that since he bought the food and Michonne had cooked it, clean up fell to him.

Rick had to touch base with Dale about the S.O.C. and their timeline. He disappeared into the spare room where Michonne had created a simple home office next to the guest bed. He always went in there to whisper on his phone.

Over the past few weeks he'd been doing it more and more. There was something going on. She could feel it, and she couldn't understand why he wouldn't share it with her. But, she knew Rick and she tried to convince herself that he had to think he was protecting her from something.

He came out of the room and reached for his coat. He gave her a tender kiss goodbye and promised not to be gone too long. Michonne couldn't help the frown that developed as she watched him slip into the cold night outside.

As time went on, she hoped she could prove to him that she was strong enough for him to lean on.

Maybe if she could get through to Carl, she could help Rick that way. She came back to the kitchen and found the young man rinsing dishes and dropping them indelicately into the dishwasher.

"Hey, you want any help?"

Carl looked back to see her smiling kindly. Instead of accepting her offer with a thankful smile in return, he only shrugged nonchalantly.

She tempted him under a raised brow, "You can finish faster and go sulk in your room, but I'd appreciate verbal confirmation."

Unable to resist the idea of an early retirement from kitchen duties, he accepted, "Yeah. Sure…"

Michonne began picking the cleaner utensils that didn't need a pre-rinse out of the sink, arranging them in a more orderly fashion. She gave Carl a quick look then dropped her eyes back to her task before speaking,

"I'm sorry things are so hard for you right now. If you ever want to talk about it…"

"I don't. Especially not with you," Carl responded coldly.

"No. I wouldn't think so," Michonne conceded. She battled with the impulse to retreat and avoid confrontation. The mother in her won out. "But it's important to talk about your feelings. I've been doing that with a friend of your dad's. He says when we talk about our problems it shows that we respect our feelings. That we respect ourselves." Carl scoffed, but she powered through. "It's helped me… feel better."

"The only thing that could help me feel better is if things go back to normal."

Michonne took a page from Hershel's book and asked, "What would normal look like for you, Carl?"

He stopped to think. It was hard to come up with a viable scenario. It would have to be before his dad met Michonne. Before he switched schools. Before his mom married the governor.

"It looks like me and my dad… and my mom. Like things were when I was little."

Michonne knew how he felt. _There's nothing so sweet as the nostalgia of childhood. The ignorance of youth is a beautiful thing._

Andre wanted her back with Mike. When her mother left her father, even Michonne wanted to go back home. It hurt her to think of it now, but the comforts of normality made her forget her mother's unhappiness.

"What about Judith?"

"Her too."

"Won't she want things to be normal, too? Won't she want things to include her father?"

Carl didn't know how to respond. Judith loved everybody. He realized it would be impossible to cut certain people out of his life and still keep his favorites.

The boy stared into the sink speechless. Michonne timidly continued, "Maybe there's a way to find a new kind of normal. Sometimes it's hard to see the good in things unless someone else points it out to us, you know?"

Carl would not make eye contact with Michonne. He simply gathered the last few pieces of silverware out of the sink. Michonne watched him start the dishwasher, hopeful that something she said would make a difference in his attitude.

Still, all he gave her was silence as he left her beside the running machine. He turned off the overhead lights as though she wasn't even there. The smaller glow of the refrigerator and hooded stovetop kept her from being plunged into total darkness.

That was the extent of their chat. He gave her no thank you for her help and no good night in parting.

 _I should've offered him some tea_ , Michonne smiled within herself, proud of her attempt. She wiped down the countertops with a towel, sat down at the island and took a deep breath.

Times like this, in the quiet of the evening- with Rick engrossed in whatever he was doing behind closed doors- the loss of her baby was especially painful.

He always kept her busy until the moment he fell asleep. He would engage her in a yammering coloring session at the kitchen table while she cleaned up and packed his lunch for the next day.

He'd always ask her what she was packing for his lunch and she'd always respond with a ridiculous answer. 'Bananas and frog feet', 'octopus and ice cream', 'fish eyes and scrambled eggs'. Each time she tried to think of something more disgusting to get a bigger more hilarious reaction out of him.

Then bathtime, storytime and finally bedtime when she fell over into her pillows completely wiped out from so much fun. Michonne opened her phone and played one of her favorite Peanut videos. Andre was in the kitchen trying to moonwalk across the floor.

He was about three years old. He had just seen someone do the moonwalk on Youtube and it blew his mind. He tried to copy their footwork step by step and Michonne quickly began to record to send to Sasha and Tyreese.

Andre squenched his face in concentration, paying no mind to the phone in his mother's hand. He was so excited, his syllables were slipping.

"Look momma! Is this the 'woomwalk'?! Look momma! Is this how I do it?! Look momma! Watch this! This the 'woomwalk', momma, ain't it?!"

Michonne laughed and cried at the same time in the dimly lit kitchen. Hershel advised her to remember what a happy life she had made for her son. It was short, but full of joy. It was one thing to be grateful for.

She wiped her tears when she heard footsteps enter the room. Her glistening eyes looked up and saw Carl. He stopped in his tracks. Face to face with her tears, the permanent scowl he wore vanished. His expression softened but he couldn't bring himself to say anything to her.

What could he say?

Michonne sniffled and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

He grabbed his backpack from the floor next to her feet and walked away. He paused to look back at her still drying her tears, on the verge of tears himself. He knew she had lost her son. But it hadn't actually moved him until now. Until he heard the little boy's jubilant voice.

The part of him that was Rick Grimes told him a kind deed was required of him now. His muscles tensed and his jaw clenched. But the part of him that was Lori Blake pushed him pensively back to his room.

XXX

Rick knocked on Abraham's door. The big officer opened the door wide, allowing Rick to enter. Two other men followed the sheriff in. Abe got a good look at the strangers and offered them a civil nod.

They were law enforcement, Abe could tell from the look of them. The collar shirts and nondescript neckties under the classic wool trench made them look like they had stepped straight out of a crime novel. He could tell from their gait that they were armed.

"The other guys are downstairs," said the man of the house in his flannel robe. "I'm going back up to tuck the kids in. Then I'm hitting the hay. Just lock up when you guys are done."

Rick knew Abraham was hurt that he wouldn't tell him what was going on. But Rick also knew hurt feelings wouldn't have any bearing on Deputy Ford's loyalty and discretion. The respect between them was clear.

Rick knew he could ask anything of Abraham no matter the danger involved. By the same token, although Abe didn't know all the details, he knew he could trust that Rick's late night meetings in his basement would never endanger his family. Abe didn't ask questions.

Dale and Morales were not so understanding.

Dale did a double-take from Rick's acquaintances to his cameraman, speechless.

Morales spoke the words Dale failed to articulate, "Who the fuck is this?"

"Special Agents Terry Pittman and Paul Rovia."

"Yeah? What the fuck are they doing here?"

Rick sighed, "Look, I understand you want all this under wraps for your story. But there are too many lives at stake. People's lives are more important than your story. Now, these gentlemen are here to help us out. They can mobilize a small army, if necessary. Stop thangs from gettin' outta hand."

Morales kept a suspicious eye on the newcomers and leaned into Dale. "Hey, I don't like this shit."

Agent Rovia spoke up. "You don't have to like it. We are specially trained in dealing with terrorist organizations. Now we agreed with Rick to let you guys go forward with your plan for now. But if things go sideways and your mole can't get these lunatics to stand down, we're moving in."

"And just so you know," Agent Pittman folded his arms, "The only reason we're not taking over and shutting you down right now is because Sheriff Grimes thinks that you can upset the entire order of the S.O.C. countrywide… but if we can't get a clear shot of that bigger picture we'll settle for mugshots of Negan Jeffries and his local chapter."

Dale, who had yet to speak, stood up from his barstool seat. Everyone was ready for his pushback. "Alright. Fine," the newsman said unexpectedly, "Let's get you guys caught up. We got work to do. My source says one of Negan's judges paroled 3 violent offenders and guess where they ended up..."

"S.O.C. headquarters," Morales answered.

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? They're goin' that hard in the paint?" Rick was surprised.

Either this group was not too bright or they were backed by some powerful people and weren't worried about a mess of paroled felons assembling and drawing attention to themselves. Rick always assumed the latter. After seeing a man like Jared Collins get away with so much, it wasn't hard to imagine.

Morales explained, "A guy in for possession of explosives and two expendable braindead bushwhackers."

"Autopsy says Dwight's suicide was staged." Rick added a new detail, "We're not releasin' that to the press. Jared Collins is off the radar. We can't get a location on him. Either we'll find him floatin' in the reservoir or he's got help from the upper echelon.

"Which would make him a central figure in all this," Rovia added.

"What about Merle Dixon? He still committed to the cause," Rick asked, almost nauseated.

The hardest part of all of this for him was the knowledge that Merle was going on with his life unpunished. Everyday that went by, it killed Rick thinking that Daryl's brother was living life uninterrupted while the woman who shared his bed found it difficult to sleep at night.

"He's sitting at Negan's feet like his favorite pet, but like most people, Negan doesn't know what his pet does all day," Morales smiled smugly into a cup of gas station coffee. "He's carrying out orders but he's in the bottle more than he's in the plans. Saw him out on his mother's old property shooting cans by himself."

"The information I'm getting from the inside is that he seems disgruntled. They say Negan took a bite outta him for second-guessing one of the boss' planned targets."

"Oh yeah," Rovia was intrigued. "Which one?"

Morales guessed, "One of the non-profits has a daycare in the basement."

Agent Pittman scoffed, "Bullshit! Isn't he the cop who shot the kid in the traffic stop?"

"That was an accident," said Rovia.

Pittman's face twisted in disbelief, "You really believe that? With him being on Negan Jeffries all-star team?"

"I mean there's no doubt he's a racist piece of shit," Rovia admitted. "But eyewitnesses saw that boy's father try to run him over. You know what it's like in the field."

"Yeah, I do. A routine stop can end up being a shoot out with a cartel king… just like an exonerated deputy can end up being a member of our country's most notorious white power organization," Pittman pointed out.

Unable to answer, Rovia retreated to a seat on the bottom stair. Rick kept quiet. He knew it was selfish, but he wanted that bastard, Merle, all to himself.

"Well, I'm not sure what they disagreed on." Horvath clarified. "The first part of his conversation with Negan was in private. My source says Negan followed Merle through the house screaming about how he would decide when they were going too far and how every member of the S.O.C. belongs to him. Wouldn't let him leave until he said he was Negan."

"What do you mean?" They all looked confused.

"He made Merle say he was Negan. Like, Negan was his name… I don't know. They're all a bunch of crackpots." Dale waved off anymore speculation and changed the subject, "What about his baby brother? He gonna help us or not?

"I hope. I'm still workin' on him," Rick answered.

"Well, shit, I get that's his brother but how hard is it to decide if a bunch of innocent people deserve to get killed," Morales wondered out loud, annoyed.

"It's harder than you think. I work with undercovers and informants all the time. Human connections are tricky. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather pull him in slow, than to force him to agree and then have him flake at the eleventh hour."

Morales nodded, unconvinced.

XXX

Rick crept into bed with Michonne. She wasn't asleep, just lying there looking out into the night through the sliding glass windows of their room. When she turned to face him, he hung his head and apologized.

"Sorry it's so late." He dropped in beside her, no longer worried about disturbing her. He blew out a long breath. "I'm beat."

"Are you sure everything is okay, Rick," Michonne asked as she found her way to his chest.

"Of course," he promised. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She deflected, then pushed up on her elbows to look him in the face. She spread her open palm across his wide chest. "I can just feel how tense you are. Something's not right. You know you can talk to me, don't you? About anything."

"Of course, angel. It's just work stuff," he told her, snaking one of her locs around his finger. He quickly turned her over on her back to distract her with a kiss. "I talked to Maggie," he said, changing the subject. "She invited us for Christmas. I didn't tell her yes or no."

Michonne simply looked up at him, resolute in her chosen course of conversation. Still, he pivoted. "I know you weren't ready at Thanksgiving, but it'll just be her and Glenn and us this time."

Still Michonne stared into his face, penetrating his aloof act. She raised a brow at him and he could no longer sidestep her initial question.

He chuckled innocently, "What? What's that face for?"

"I'm just waiting for you to tell me the truth."

"About what?"

"About all your secret calls and your late nights and these worry lines creasing your forehead. Is this about Shane? Are you guys hanging out and you're afraid to tell me?"

"What? No! I haven't heard from him."

"Because if you are, you don't have to hide it from me. I know I lost it after the funeral but…"

"Look. I promise…"

"That was just an emotional day for me."

"I'm not hidin' anythang from you," he lied, planting a kiss to her lips.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt queasy. He swallowed, touching his forehead to hers and praying this never came back to bite him in the ass. He couldn't let her find out what he was up against.

After she let loose on Shane, she could never find out about Merle. Rick was going to make them pay and make sure none of it ever touch the purest part of his life, even if it meant he had to lie to her.

His heart beat steady and sure. _My whole future is here with her. Decades. This is the only lie I'll ever tell her._

"Trust me," he said.

Michonne held his gaze for a second longer. "You know I trust you, Rick Grimes." Her rigid disposition softened. She allowed the Christmas conversation to continue, "So tell me what's Christmas like at the Rhees?"

Rick tilted his head upward to think. "Well my sister gets a little tipsy and makes out with Glenn a lot." Michonne giggled at the thought and Rick shook his head on a sigh. "Yeah. It's not pretty. And Glenn hates ham, so the menu's not so traditional. But he makes these delicious lamb skewers. Last year, Shane ate so many…"

Rick stopped his story abruptly and the bright smile on Michonne's face dimmed. So much of his life included Shane Walsh. Not seeing him was one thing, but cutting him out of his past completely would be near impossible.

It wasn't Michonne's intention to make him feel like 'Shane' was a forbidden word. But her face always lost expression when she heard it. Rick assumed that he knew why.

The reason had less to do with his involvement in the shooting and more to do with her regret over her outburst. She had actually wanted to have a civil conversation with Shane. When she saw him in the church parking lot, her spirit was kindled and she was poised to do just that … until she wasn't.

Just like she was enjoying this retelling of last year's Christmas, until suddenly she wasn't.

This is so not fair to him, she thought as she tried to reanimate her features.

"It's okay, Rick, really." She encouraged him, running her fingers through his curls, "How many did he eat?"

She could see him debate briefly whether to continue and then his face lit up with a grin again.

He tried to read her earthy brown eyes, like tea leaves in the bottom of a mug. But he trusted her. If she said it was okay, he believed her.

"That idiot ate so many that there were only four left," Rick stuck his thumb to his palm, presenting four fingers and wide eyes. "He kept sneaking more and nobody knew until my sister went to plate them. I thought she was gonna kill him!

"Oh no! Poor Maggie," Michonne winced.

"We were there to help get thangs ready," Rick's southern twang thickened as he chuckled. "No one else had shown up yet and the main dish was completely demolished. So, Shane, you know, he's standin' there lookin' like he could see the hangman knottin' a noose… then he says he'll run to the store to get more. Like it's no big deal…"

"I never see lamb at the store. Let alone on Christmas."

"Wouldn't matter anyway," Rick said, falling on her neck and wheezing in a fit, "The lamb came from Glenn's grandpa… who slaughtered it special for their Christmas dinner… and had it flown in… fresh… from California."

Rick in hysterics, the meat being flown in, the mental picture of Maggie on the verge of murder sent Michonne sputtering out a raspberry before she joined him in full throated laughter.

Their giggling could be heard in the next room. It was contagious and Carl couldn't resist the smirk that grew quickly across his lips. It had been a long time since he'd heard his father laugh like that.

But, the boy was too bitter to give in to sentiment. He decided on anger. Rolling his eyes, he put in his ear buds and turned the volume way up.


	22. Chapter 22: The Machine

The Machine

It was just another day at the office for Rick. Georgina, or Georgie, was softly singing along to her gospel radio station while stuffing folders with paperwork. The gray-haired secretary liked to say that she came with the precinct, like the files of rap sheets and mugshots.

She doted on Rick like he was her own son, especially now that he wore his trouble in the frown lines of his forehead. He walked past her desk to his office and the stack of folders he needed to wrangle. The threat of losing his position still loomed in the curt emails from his superiors.

The last meeting he attended did not go well. He had to outline his strategy to ensure this kind of thing wouldn't happen again. The county board of directors barely listened to his proposal before he was battered by a blitz of nitpicking questions and undermining comments. All led by Mayor Monroe, who rarely attended these meetings and seemed to only be there to antagonize him.

There was none of the usual catching up and chit chatting about their sons with, Bryce Gilmore, the deputy clerk. His son Jamal played with Carl on the same little league team a few years ago. After the meeting adjourned, Bryce gave him the cold shoulder. It was a lonely walk from the boardroom through the wide marbled halls of the old county complex to his car.

But now, he was in his second home. A sacred place. The King County sheriff's office. He was sinking into his well-worn leather chair. He was soothed by the crack and static of the CB radio in his office and the coded vernacular of his guys in the field. Everything was running like a well-oiled machine.

He was shooing Carol out of his office as she sniffed the air and teased him for smelling like coconuts instead of his usual manly aroma. He was rummaging through his desk to find the roll of spearmints Michonne had him hooked on. And though, this was the place people called to report every kind of trouble, Rick was at peace and well into the routine of his day.

Until a sudden reverberating sound of something heavy and wooden being pushed across the bare floor was followed by a thud and the pitch of fracturing glass. Tara shot down the hallway to his door. The look on her face made him jump out of his seat before she could get his name from her nervous lips. Her hair whipped her face as Rick tore past her to the commotion.

A mess of papers were being trampled by boots. The medal and remembrance display case windows were smashed. The framed picture of Morgan Jones was being kicked, this way and that, unintentionally by the scuffle. Rosita's tongue whirred like a pinwheel in the wind, shouting Spanish threats and curses at T-Dog as she and Noah tried in vain to pull him away from Daryl.

"Hell's goin' on in here," Rick barked in an awful, heavy voice that made most everybody pause and look his way.

T-Dog jerked his hands from Daryl's neck, allowing the rookie to drop from his tiptoes and stand flat on the floor again. Rosita immediately inspected his red-marked throat with concern.

T- Dog addressed Rick still looking Daryl in the eye. "Rick, get your boy, man." He was out of breath, his eyes squinted fiercely. "He talkin' reckless and I'm about to put his young ass in timeout."

Rosita defended her partner. "You started it, T! You shouldn't have said that about his brother."

"I can't believe you're defendin' him, Espinosa! You? You heard what he said to me!"

"You know he didn't mean that, T. You're just baiting him because you hate his brother."

"Fuck his brother! I meant what I said and he meant what he said! Morgan Jones was better than ten Merle Dixons. Everybody in here who knew Morg knows that the wrong cop died that day."

T-Dog got in Daryl's face again, nose to nose, chest to chest. "Be careful, Espinosa. These white boys don't really have our backs out there. And don't think you'll ever be good enough for him to take you home to meet the rest of his white trash family…"

"T! Hell's wrong with you, man?" Rick had heard enough, but he still was unclear as to how this clash erupted.

The imposing deputy, turned to answer Rick but his tirade ended and his face fell from fury to fright when he felt the hard press of Daryl's sidearm at the back of his head.

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa," Abraham said as he made his way from the bathroom down the hall with the newspaper under his arm.

Rosita's eyes were as big as saucers. The sight of her partner and friend holding his gun at the head of their fellow deputy rendered her usually boisterous mouth silent. Reaching for Daryl's arm but afraid to actually touch it she whispered shakily, "Backwoods, you can't do this. Put that away."

Rick saw Noah's eyes widen. The boy was younger than Daryl, but unlike Dixon, he'd been on a path to law enforcement since high school. Despite his early start, Noah had none of the daring that Daryl possessed. However, when it came to adherence to protocol Deputy Wesley led the pack. Besides young Noah, there were civilians present and prisoners waiting to be booked.

Unfortunately, this disagreement was not happening behind closed doors. The public nature of it would call for him to administer discipline. Harsh discipline - depending on how this all played out. With his job already in peril, he knew this would only add fuel to the fire Monroe and Blake had set.

"You crazy, Dixon? You can lose your badge for this." The reminder came from Abe, who was never especially close to the young man, still he considered Daryl as a man cut from the same cloth. "Come on, brother we're family."

"Yeah? Well maybe I don't want this badge anymore," Daryl said with an eerie calm. "Y'all say we're family but you turned your back on my brother and expect me to do the same."

"Your brother's a piece of shit," T-Dog turned and faced Daryl defiantly, who kept the barrel trained at the other man's beaded forehead.

Rosita shrieked, "Shut the fuck up, T!" Daryl pulled back the slide, aimed again, steady and dared him to repeat it.

Tara was trying to deescalate the situation, as were Carol and Jerry but their pleas for calm only heightened the noisy chaos. Rick heard Georgie's small voice call for him under the uproar but his focus stayed on the two combatants.

"Dixon, you stand down, son." The sheriff spoke in a firm but heartfelt tone to the young deputy. It was almost enough to quiet the mounting bedlam. "We're not doin' this today. Just think for a second, now," he appealed to them both as his beating heart banged in his throat. "You're both good men. You can choose to walk away from this with both your careers in tact."

"Rick," Georgie called to him again.

"Don't worry, Georgie. These boys are gonna do the right thang," Sheriff Grimes assured the frantic secretary.

Rick placed a placid palm on Deputy Douglas' chest and looked him square in the eye, "Don't force my hand here." When he gestured to Daryl to lower his weapon,the scowling rookie officer slowly complied.

He holstered his gun but before anyone could breathe a sigh of relief, Daryl sucker-punched T-Dog with a hell-bent left hook and the station erupted into hysteria again.

Rick mumbled, "Goddammit, Dixon," pushing his deputy back against the wall with his forearm across his chest.

"Oh, fuck," Abe exclaimed and reached to keep a now bloodied T-Dog from hitting the floor.

"Rick! The radio!"

"Not now, Georgie!" Grimes answered dismissively, breathing as heavily as the man he had pinned to the wall.

"Rick," the secretary shouted again, this time refusing to be dismissed. "There was a call for paramedics on Savannah Street!" The location made everyone pause. "1207 Savannah…"

Carol's hand flew up to her lips in shock. "Oh my God, Shane!"

Rick met Carol's stormy blue eyes and swallowed hard, his heart dropped from his throat to the pit of his stomach. He looked to Georgie for confirmation that she'd heard the address correctly. The older woman held a hand to her chest, openly distraught, and nodded.

The sheriff's tensed features immediately dropped. Pushing Daryl back into the wall once more in frustration, he cursed under his breath. Turning on his heels, he marched silently to the exit. In a hurry to get to his best friend, he left the station and the rest of his employees to kill one another, if they so desired.

...

Rick walked past the lingering first responders outside the little house on Savannah Street. Stepping over the threshold, he readied himself for an ugly sight.

How many times had he strolled through this doorway with deli sandwiches and a six pack? No knock required. How many times had he sat in his car impatiently looking at this green painted door? Always waiting for his tardy friend to come out inevitably still combing his dark wavy hair, shirt half buttoned and popping chewing gum between his teeth.

Pulling out a chair from the small table near the kitchen, Rick steadied himself between the seat and the table. His legs were ready to give out and his head was drifting, buoyant on a tide of grief.

A grunt, no different than one produced from a kick to the ribs, exited his body as he fell into the old fashioned wooden chair. Rick had spent many nights sitting in this chair, usually a little tipsy. Sometimes completely drunk.

Even when he was there to wallow in his feelings about Dontaye Evans' fate, or his failed marriage or his inability to connect with some girl he thought he liked, Rick usually ended the night in full throated laughter at his best friend's tomfoolery.

Rick could almost hear his voice now. He could see a phantom of Shane, red-faced and grinning across the table, chasing his beer with another scandalous installment of _True Stories in the Life of Shane 'the Machine' Walsh._

 _"My eyes were_ big _as her double D's, Rick," Shane recounted through a drooling giggle._

 _Rick nearly spit out his drink. "Well, that's what happens when you two-time a girl like Natalie."_

 _"You call it two-timin'? Now, come on, Rick. When you're at a buffet… are you two-timin' the meatloaf if you try the fried chicken?"_

 _Shaking his head, Rick scolded amusedly, "That's a terrible analogy, bud. You do know that women are more than meat to consume?"_

 _"I know, I_ _know,_ " _Shane surrendered. "But you seen the curves on Natalie? She's the meat, the potatoes and a slice of cake!"_

 _"So what happened?"_

 _"Nat socks me in the eye and jumps on Emé. You know black chicks don't just pull hair like white girls. They went at it like they were in the ring. It ain't sexy at all! It's kinda scary."_

 _"I guess so. Especially when you're naked as a jaybird."_

 _Shane laughed through his shame and admitted, "I was! I was! Ass naked… so was Emé! It was the middle of the night and I'm prayin' none of my neighbors call the cops."_

 _"I woulda sent Peletier and Chambler."_

 _"That's cold, man. Why not Espinosa?"_

 _Rick threw his balled up taco wrapper at Shane's incorrigible face. "Just finish the story."_

 _"Emé cussed me out and told me if I wasn't a cop, her cousins would've beat my ass. I held Nat back while she found her clothes and left."_

 _"Well, at least you survived."_

 _"Survived?! She left me with Nat, man," Shane shrilled with playful hysteria. "She's a wildcat! Fucked my brains out. My brains, Rick. My brains…"_

His brains. His beautiful brain with razor sharp wit and the ability to see the world from a light-hearted angle, no matter the predicament. Shane was always smarter than Rick.

God knows he didn't have as much common sense but he knew how to ace a test. His academy grade point average put Rick's to shame. If the sheriff was honest, though nobility always won out, he was often tempted to heed Shane's advice to sneak a peek at the answers on his page.

The warm wetness from the rims of his eyes blurred the gruesome sight in the Savannah Street living room. The headrest of Shane's gray recliner was soiled and slick with crimson. Rick's head fell back, his nose pointed at the ceiling searching the ether for the strength to get up and do what he'd promised Shane years ago.

He moved deeper into the house, passing the picture of the two of them at graduation in their pressed blues and peaked caps. They were holding each other by the shoulders, smiling wide, ready to make a difference. Energized to "be the change" as King County's, _then_ , Public Works Director, Deanna Monroe had declared from the podium of the outdoor stage.

They did it, too. They made it a point to be fair and compassionate. To check their egos at the door of the precinct and check each other if necessary. Rick wouldn't forget all the times Shane helped him remember some procedural guideline that saved him from a mountain of extra paperwork or botching an arrest.

If you asked Rick, he would tell you Shane deserved to be sheriff more than he did. But that's just not how things worked out. Shane was more charming, well-versed and thanks to Rick's old sports injury, he was faster too. The only thing he lacked was the desire to be more than a beat cop. It was enough for Officer Walsh to take orders and cruise the streets.

Rick always knew he wanted more. Though he would've given it all up if he'd known what it would take for him to get it. When Rick fell into depression after Dontaye Evans' untimely demise, Shane never judged him.

When Rick traded in the city streets to patrol country roads, Shane went with him. When Rick ran for Sheriff, Shane supported him as much as anyone. Jealousy was never one of Shane's traits, so when Rick took the oath of office, his best friend was genuinely happy for his success and made sure everyone at the ceremony knew it with his obnoxious woops and whistles.

But where had Rick been while Shane spiraled into depression that swallowed him whole? He knew his friend and yet he somehow lumped him in with Merle. Rick asked himself, _How am I different from the media or the rioters in Robinson Park?_

Stepping into Shane's bedroom, he opened the closet. All his jeans neatly folded across hangers. T-shirts folded and arranged on the closet shelf like a store display table. His uniforms were still in the cellophane wrap from the cleaners.

Rick kneeled down under the fashionable wardrobe to the microwave-sized safe that sat between a few pairs of shoes. He punched in the combination using the black number keys.

2-5-1-3

February 5, 2013.

Rick had been there for Shane that day.

It was a hard one to get through. The week had been long as hell after Shane broke up with his pregnant girlfriend. For months Rick had witnessed the insanity of their relationship.

Fights about missed calls. Fights about tone. Fights about word choice. Fights about "looks". When Cynthia finally told Shane it was over, Rick felt bad that they'd waited until she was 6 months pregnant, but he couldn't deny his relief.

Of course, like everyone who knew them, he'd seen it coming. When he got home that night he celebrated the end of that disaster popping a bottle of wine with Lori.

After a few days of calm, Cynthia called Shane again. Call after call. He wouldn't answer and Rick wouldn't blame him. That was their routine. Take a break, get back together. She'd call, Shane would fold.

After his shift, Shane sat alone in his living room without the support of his friend. Cynthia's number showed on his phone screen. He couldn't resist.

 _"C… What the hell? We can't keep…"_

 _"Shane," a voice other than the one he expected interrupted his weak protest. "It's Cynthia's mom."_

 _His voice went low, afraid of her reason for calling. "Mrs. J? What…"_

 _"The baby came early, Shane." Cynthia's mother gasped before letting out an acute groan. "Cynthia didn't make it."_

Shane wouldn't go up to the hospital to see his new daughter. He had enough bullshit reasons but Rick knew his friend was scared, plain and simple. Through all Shane's denials and attempts to joke the situation away, Rick could see the fear in his eyes.

He didn't want to see that baby hooked up to monitors, tubes criss-crossing over her wrinkly skin. He didn't want to deal with the fact that she was his responsibility. His alone. He couldn't believe that the last time he saw Cynthia was really the _last time_. He thought things would go back to being normal in a few weeks.

It was the same thing Rick had thought since Andre's funeral. Back then Shane fell off the radar, too. When Rick kept coming around to check on him, his best friend told him that he'd rather be left alone in the most passive aggressive way-

 _"I know you're just trying to help me, bud and you're a good friend. But if you're really my friend, Rick, you gotta give me space to work this shit out the way I know how."_

It was completely feasible that since the shooting, Shane needed to be alone to work through it. Rick knew this was true, but it didn't stop him from feeling guilty about not being there when his friend needed him.

He was needed now too and he was gonna be there for Shane even though Shane was gone for good.

...

Rick held the curious gaze of the little girl in front of him. Her purple rimmed glasses made her clear maple eyes even bigger and brighter. Sandy hair hung from her head in countless plaits with colorful dangling barrettes.

Cynthia's mother stood in her living room doorway, clutching the envelope that contained Shane's will. It named her as the custodian of his affairs and his daughter as the sole beneficiary of everything he owned. Mrs. J's full lips quivered, even as she looked at her grandbaby and tried to put on a convincing smile.

"Tell Rick thank you," she prodded the little one.

"Thank you, Mr. Rick." The girl blinked down at the hand-carved cigar box in her hands. She looked so much like her dad. There was only a ghost of her mom in her cocoa brown skin and dimpled face. "What's in it?"

"Some thangs your…" he looked to Mrs. J and saw her brow bunch. "Some stuff Shane wanted you to have. Go ahead. Open it."

The little girl smiled at the mention of Shane. She loved him, though she rarely saw him. He'd stop by for her birthday or Christmas. He'd call her now and then to see how school was going. To Jordyn, he was her grandma's funny friend. Just someone who knew her mommy when she was still alive.

Jordyn sat the box on the table and pulled the lid up and back. She quietly studied the contents. She was just about Judith's age and smart as a whip.

Rick could never understand why Shane never told her. To him, it was the highest irony that Judith wasn't his when he thought she was and Jordyn belonged to Shane but she didn't know it.

In the box, there were a rainbow of ribbon colors from Shane Walsh Sr.'s time in the Air Force.

Silver medals a teenaged Shane won from high school track and field victories.

His shiny Shane A. Walsh, King's County Sheriff's Department name tag and badge, collectable coins from his grandfather, a CD of his favorite songs and his favorite pair of Aviator shades.

The unboxed ring he got for Jordyn's mother but never had the courage to give her. So much for curious little eyes to explore.

The baby girl zeroed in on a picture of Shane, more than a decade old, from a thin stack of other family pictures. A smiling headshot of him, handsome in his cadet uniform. Her next words almost knocked Rick from his spot on the edge of the sofa.

"He looks like me," she said through her lisp, her eyes glued to the photograph.

Her grandmother's tenuously held tears broke free and she covered her mouth, retreating to her bedroom. Leaving Rick and Jordyn alone at her coffee table, the little one seemed unmoved by her grandmother's sadness. But her eyes spoke an uncanny perception.

Mrs. J always liked Shane. She was always pricking him to _just try_ his hand at being a daddy.

Like her late daughter, she really believed he'd make a good one. As much as she loved Jordyn, it felt wrong to her that she was raising this child when she had a perfectly good father out there who just happened to suffer from a fear of failure and emotional attachment.

"He gave me all this because he loved me," Jordyn told Rick with certainty. She stared at a different picture. This one showed Shane and Cynthia in one of their happier moments.

"I love him too." Rick was floored. His eyes welled, his lips parted to reply but a boulder seemed to be lodged in his throat. "We always had fun."

"Yeah," Rick swallowed and finally croaked out a response. "We did too."

...

Michonne heard the gravel crunching under the tires of Rick's approaching vehicle. She stood up as Carl emerged from his bedroom, summoned by the same sound. Though he refused to look in Michonne's direction, she could still see his red-rimmed eyes.

She stayed a few paces behind him, giving him first dibs to his father as Rick walked through the door. Father and son embraced for a long moment as sniffles and stifled sobs were exchanged between them. Carl's face was buried in Rick's shoulder. Rick kissed his head and looked to Michonne with sorrowful blues that seemed to melt in his watery gaze.

She mustered up a faint supportive smile which he returned with appreciation.

"I can't believe he's dead, dad. Why would he do that to himself?"

Rick could guess why. He was looking at part of the reason now. A childless mother.

The blood of an innocent on his hands had been too much for Shane's fragile heart to bear. He took his eyes off Michonne and spoke into the young man's hair. "I don't know, Carl. I just don't know."

The boy pulled back to look his father in the face. "He didn't say anything to you? Did he seem that sad to you? You're his best friend, couldn't you tell?"

A child had left Rick speechless for the second time today. Michonne came to his rescue. "It's easy to overlook the things your friends don't want you to see." Thoughts of Sasha's confession immediately flooded her mind and she felt an eerie chill at the thought of her going down the same path as Shane.

"What's that supposed to mean," Carl barked at her. "You didn't even know him! You don't know anything about us!"

Rick called after his son as Carl stormed away back to his room. Michonne winced when his door slammed behind him.

Rick tensed his jaw. "I'm sorry. He's gonna apologize," he assured her as he went to follow the boy with a ready reprimand.

She placed a gentle hand to his chest. "It's okay, Rick. I know he's upset. He needs his dad not some stranger… no matter how much his daddy loves her. No matter how much she loves his daddy." She held his face in her palm tenderly. "So you go be there for him and when he's settled, I'll be here for you."

He nodded wearily and walked past her to Carl's room. Immediately, the young man was on defense.

"Really? You're gonna come after me about raising my voice at your _girlfriend_?" His voice was full of contempt in reference to Michonne. "That's what you want to be upset about tonight? Not your best friend blowing his brains out or that Philip said you'll be out of a job by the end of the year… You wanna come in here and try to force me to apologize?"

"That's not…"

"Mom called looking for you. She's real upset about Uncle Shane. You should call her."

"I can't, Carl…"

"You know, Philip is hardly ever home. Mom gets lonely. I think she misses you, dad. I think maybe if you talked to her… maybe you two could work it out."

"Carl…"

"You could try," Carl's voice broke and his reddened eyes spilled over again. "How can you just not love her anymore? Are you some kinda machine?

The irony of that question nearly made Rick laugh. The robotic routine of married life with Lori was something he couldn't explain to his son, even if he wanted.

"Carl, your mom is married to someone else. I'm with someone else. We can't get back together."

Carl knew deep down that was the answer he'd get. It still stung like hell to hear his father actually say it. He decided to unleash some hard truths of his own.

"Well, I don't want you to be with somebody else. Everybody is ruining my life! What about my life? I lost you and got Philip. I lost my old friends and got this new school full of fuckin' racist idiots!"

"Carl."

"Now, Uncle Shane's gone and this lady moves in here. It's sad that her son is dead, but why do we have to take care of her?"

"Son," Rick took a soul-weary breath and slowly eased to a perch on Carl's bed. "I love you. I promise I'm not tryin' to ruin your life. Nobody is. I don't understand what you have against Michonne. She's not the first woman I've dated since your mom and I divorced. You never seemed to have a problem with it before. So why now?"

His dad's connection to Michonne was strong, intense. It frightened Michonne too at first. For Carl it felt like standing on a launchpad witnessing a rocket push pass gravity. The force of it all, the heat, was undeniable.

"Because…" Carl couldn't explain his feelings but he knew somehow, "this is different," he blurted. "It's different."

"I know," Rick agreed with a half smile. "That's a good thang."

"For you."

"Carl, you know I wouldn't be with her if I didn't think she'd be a good thang for you too. I love her."

"More than me."

Rick stood up with conviction and made his way over to his son. "Not more than you."

"But you're choosing her over me."

"I'm choosin' her _because_ of you." Rick dipped his head to look his son in the eye. "The day you were born, you taught me that I could find the deepest truest meaning of love in someone else's eyes. That a piece of your heart could be missing… and you wouldn't even know it until you were blessed with it. And because this is a dark world we're in son and that darkness has touched all of us. You deserve some light in your life… and so does she. We all do."


	23. Chapter 23: The Light

The Light

Michonne woke up with a headache. She was in the bed alone. Her mouth was dry and her shoulders ached. She checked her phone and the bright light made her wince.

A waiting text from Rick was bittersweet. He was stuck at work, but thinking of her. He'd been burning the candle at both ends. Saddened about his best friend. Stressed about work.

In a few hours, there would be a memorial service for Deputy Shane Walsh. Michonne hoped it would give him some closure. But having been in the same situation weeks ago, she was doubtful.

She made her way to the kitchen for a glass of water, feeling rather weak. Wobbly.

Signs of life from Carl's room got her attention as she walked by his door. Michonne knocked and received no answer. "Carl. Your dad had to work late." She spoke from the hallway, respectful of his space. "Two of his guys called in sick. He had to cover for them."

She heard a faint gurgling sound and splashing. Worry seized her and she decided she'd risk the young man's objection to her entering his room.

"Carl?" His bed was empty. His room was the usual mess. Michonne started picking up discarded food scraps and wrappers when she heard him moan from the attached bathroom. "Carl?"

He was on his knees in front of the toilet. His weak voice echoed into the bowl, "Think I'm sick."

There was none of his leveled rancor or defiance. Just the puddle of congealed vomit beside him on the floor. He hadn't made it to the toilet in time. His hair was damp with sweat and he shivered constantly.

Michonne threw a towel over his accident. She pressed her palm to his cheek and forehead. He was on fire. Immediately, she rushed to get the thermometer.

"101.2," she read his temperature with concern. "That's high. Come on up here." Michonne put the toilet lid down and pulled him off the cold tiles, helping him into the shower. Carl barely reacted as the lukewarm water poured over him, clothes and all. Unable to stand under his own strength, he supported himself against the wall.

Michonne washed his face and rinsed his hair. She brought in a clean towel and clothes for him and left them folded in a pile on the top of the commode. "I'm gonna leave you to get dressed. Just leave those wet clothes in the shower."

Carl obeyed and when he was done, he crept out of the bathroom. His hair was still wet, his cheeks flushed with fever. His bed had new linens and Michonne was replacing his pillowcase with a crisp clean one.

"Feel a little better?" Carl nodded as Michonne held his blanket back to tuck him in. "I called your dad while you were in the shower. He wants you to take this." She handed him a dose of fever reducer. "Here you go."

Carl didn't hesitate. He upended the tiny plastic cup and then did a slow motion snuggle down into the cozy bedding. Michonne folded a cool washcloth and laid it on his forehead.

"Do you think I'll be better in the morning," he asked her, hopeful. "Dad said Uncle Shane's memorial isn't for kids, but I can't let him go by himself.

"I hope so, sweetie," she said, gathering up his contaminated clothes to wash. "Try to go back to sleep now, okay?" She headed for the door, eager to do the same herself.

"Michonne?"

She paused. "Hmm?"

"Did you read to your son… or… like, sing him lullabies when it was time for bed?" The effort it took to talk was like walking up a flight of stairs for Carl. But, at that moment, he felt desperate.

"Yeah." Michonne's heart pounded at the question but her face warmed with a smile. "Of course. That's like Mom 101," she joked.

It was always something Carl wanted, to create the scene he'd witnessed hundreds of times over in movies, tv shows and artist's depictions. It wasn't as if his mom had never done it. But somewhere between her infidelities, divorce, remarriage and new baby, she had stopped being a mom to him, in a way.

Carl wondered if she thought he'd gotten too big for nightly tuck-ins. But he knew Judith never got any either. Lori was asleep before both of them most nights. A glass of wine by her bed. A pill for her ulcer.

His mom always told him to grow up and he felt that maybe he was weird for still wanting to be treated like a kid. She'd make sly remarks that powerful men don't need to whine to a therapist. That was only for babies.

But right now, at this moment, he didn't care if it was weird. He wasn't a baby, but he was in a lot of pain. Emotionally and now physically. More than anything, in this moment, he wanted to just be a kid.

A kid with a mom.

His dad said Michonne was what they needed. That she was a good thing. That he was with her for Carl's sake as much as his own.

Carl had heard that before. His mom said she chose Philip to give him a better life. But, as far as he could see, his life had only gotten worse.

Then Michonne comes along and his life implodes completely. How could she be the light in the darkness that his father had promised? Carl wanted to either prove that assertion wrong and solidify his disregard for her or experience that new kind of normal that Michonne had described to him.

For her part, Michonne felt lightheaded at the poorly disguised request. Could she share the nightly routine that was exclusive to her and her only son. Her late son. Who was sweet and respectful and kind. The opposite of Carl.

She knew life was not easy for Rick's son. _But at least he still has a life,_ she thought. _And what does he do with it? Get in fights. Curse. Slam doors. Shrug off the people who want to help him._

Could she scrounge up that motherly instinct for this boy?

She closed his door and went to start the laundry.

And Carl felt vindicated. Michonne wasn't any kind of light. She wasn't this glowing queen of good his dad believed her to be. She was just some lady that needed help. Some lady with nowhere to go.

He'd been wrong. This wasn't different. This was just his dad being his dad. Coming to the rescue, trying to help everyone. Which is impossible, like his mother always said.

And as Carl thought about ways to get Michonne out of their lives for good, his door creaked open.

"These books were in your dad's office. I've never heard of this one before," she said perusing the cover, "but it looks exciting. You can't go wrong with John Grisham." She turned the other book to his view. "Now, Treasure Island, I read in school. But it's still a classic…"

"The Grisham," Carl interrupted.

"Grisham it is." Michonne gave him a genuine but tired smile and perched herself beside him on the edge of his bed.

Carl didn't make it past the first page but he went to sleep not feeling weird and a little closer to the light.

...

When Rick came home at the crack of dawn, he went straight to his son's room. He didn't realize until he walked in and saw Michonne snoring on her back at the foot of the bed that he hadn't been worried. He knew Carl was in good hands.

Michonne was not only a mother because she had given birth. She was responsible, reliable and caring. It was just in her nature. When he sat with her on Sasha's couch, her warm-hearted concern for Shane and Merle convinced Rick early on that if his wildest dreams came true and he could be with her, it would be life-changing for him and his son.

Carl was sleeping peacefully. A little clammy to the touch but he was no longer burning with fever. Rick pushed a hand gently through his son's hair.

Rick loved the boy. His heart broke for him and everything he was going through. Guilt about it all brought tears to his eyes as he watched him sleep soundly.

So many of Carl's problems were his fault. If he could have kept himself together… maybe he could have kept his marriage together… maybe he could have kept his son's life from being upended.

 _If I had been a better man. A stronger man. Strong enough to keep work away from my family. Instead of bringing all the ugliness I was trying to protect them from right into my home._

Rick swore he'd never let that happen again. He propped himself on a lean against Carl's dresser and watched them breathe peacefully under his roof. Pulling in a deep breath, Rick tried to forget his earlier conversation with Deanna Monroe. He fought back tears in a mix of emotions. Dark thoughts that crowded his mind on his car ride home were now dripping off him like melting snow.

"How was your night?"

Rick's mouth curled into a smile at the sound of her soft voice. He crossed the room, speaking just as quietly, "Not bad, all things considered. I didn't have to clean up any puke." He stood over her and caressed her bare foot with his fingertips.

"Poor thing," she spoke of Carl sympathetically. Michonne sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes through a miserable moan.

Rick didn't like the way she looked. "How you feelin'? You okay?"

"I might be getting sick too."

Rick pulled her up from the bed and braced her swaying body under his arm against his chest. He walked her to their room. "It's okay, baby. Thank you for everything. Let's lay you down."

...

A few hours of sleep later, Rick stepped out of the shower to see Michonne in a black velour dress she'd borrowed from Maggie. She was pinning her hair up with her eyes closed.

Her head ached whenever she opened them.

"Michonne, what do you think you're doin'?"

"Rick… don't start. You're not going to your best friend's funeral alone."

"Honey, you're sick."

"I feel a lot better." She walked out of the bathroom and came back in with his suit on a hanger. "I took some medicine. Had a bit of ginger tea." She hung it on the bathroom door hook and pushed his underwear and a t-shirt into his chest. "I'm going."

"No. You're not."

"My mother is already here."

"What?" Rick grabbed his towel and craned his neck to look for Gayle.

"She's already in the kitchen making tea for Carl. She's gonna sit with him while we're gone."

"When did you call her?"

"This morning. She rushed right over. She really wants to help us out. I talked to Carl. He's upset he can't go, but the kid can barely lift his head. He doesn't want you going by yourself either. And you're not."

Before Rick could protest more sternly, Gayle rapped gently on the cocked door, her eyes averted to the ceiling. "Coffee."

Michonne stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door on Rick mid-objection.

"I'm going," she whispered to him definitively as the door clicked.

"You need any help getting ready?" Gayle handed over the serving tray of full coffee and muffins.

"Thanks, mom. Mmm…" Michonne beamed. "Are these your peach vanilla muffins?"

"Of course. I know you love them. I didn't want you two leaving without breakfast. You'll need a little fuel to get you through the morning." Gayle sat Michonne down. Undoing the messy bun her daughter was attempting, her mother began a single french braid. She hummed out a gloomy kind of chuckle to herself.

"What's wrong, momma?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Nothing's wrong. This hair of yours grows too fast." She stopped for a moment to reflect and changed the subject on a dime, "Isn't life like a recipe sometimes? You can never really ruin a dish... unless you burn it. Balance fixes everything. Life will add some joy to pain. Always a little salt to sugar." Gayle switched to a whisper, "You needed Rick and now he needs you."

"I really don't know what I would've done without him."

"And he wouldn't know what to do without you, sweet child. He's like your father in that way."

"Rick is nothing like daddy."

"Your father is a soldier. A fighter," Gayle answered back quickly. "Hugh is an intelligent man. He's a genius according to his IQ. But being a fighter, inspiring fear, is all he knows how to do well."

Michonne continued her argument quietly in her head as her mother continued.

"Rick is more than that. He's a man who's had to win an election... to win the love of the people he serves. You think your daddy could've done that?"

Michonne scoffed, trying to imagine her father keeping his cool during a heated debate with rival candidates or smiling for photo ops. _Impossible..._

"In fact, when snarling and barking doesn't work, the only reason he gets anything done is because I'm there to smooth things over for him."

Michonne didn't understand. "So... how is Rick like him? I think I'm missing the point."

Gayle laid an expertly crafted braid on Michonne's shoulder and stood in front of her. Mother looked into daughter's brown eyes and held her warm cheeks in her hands. Her baby was special and Rick was one lucky son of a bitch.

"The point is Rick needs you. No matter how stable, capable or powerful a man may be, he needs the other half of him... and he's found that in you."

Rick stepped out of the bathroom into his bedroom to find Michonne and her mother talking in whispers. As soon as Gayle laid her eyes on him, dressed in his suit, she excused herself.

"I'll get out of your way, Rick. I was just helping Michonne with her hair."

"You're not in my way," he offered with a genuineness that made Gayle such a fan of his from the moment they met. "I appreciate you comin' and you're welcome to stay but Michonne isn't feelin' well. She should stay here and rest. Don't you think?"

"Really, Rick?" Michonne scoffed at his attempt to get her mother to side with him.

"Actually, Rick, that's what I told her. But as you can see," Gayle waved a hand over her ready daughter, "she disagrees. I learned a long time ago… and I guess it's what you'll learn today... When my sweet child makes up her mind I can either help her or get out of her way. I've been out of her way long enough."

With the same dogged delivery that Michonne had given him his underwear, Gayle lifted his upturned palm and sat his breakfast in his hand with a condescending smile. "So here I am with muffins."

He couldn't deny how badly he wanted… no, needed her there with him today. Her mother being there with Carl was an unexpected godsend. His chivalrous nature lost to their maternal instinct.

The smirk on Michonne's face was adorable wrapped around a cheek full of muffin. Defeated, he bit into his own and sighed. "Thanks for breakfast, Gayle." He deadpanned, "Okay, Michonne. Let's go."

...

Michonne had never been to a send off like Shane's.

In the days after seeing Andre's mother face to face, the deputy made up his mind that he would end his life and be done with it. No longer a disappointment to anyone. No longer able to hurt the people he wanted to protect most. He was at peace with that decision.

Shane orchestrated every detail of his final farewell. No church service. No clergy. Just midday drinks at Pard's, their favorite watering hole.

No hymns. Just the bar's brand of classic rock that often inspired a drunken two-step and slurred rendition of Aerosmith. The bartop displayed a picture of Shane in uniform. Pre-poured shots of the bartender's best were covered with white square envelopes bearing the names of all in attendance.

An exclusive affair, Shane made a short list of those he regretted leaving. He wrote them all letters. Handwritten letters of apology, letters of thanks, letters to reminisce. All of them saying goodbye.

Maggie sat in a corner booth. Her letter facedown, she wept on Glenn's shoulder. When Rick walked in, his sister's heart broke all over again for her brother's pain.

Many of the attendees were in uniform. Not only King County, but neighboring jurisdictions as well. Even Capt. Dawn Lerner showed up. Though she couldn't bring herself to look Rick or Michonne in the face.

Rosita approached them, tears in her eyes. She gave a sorrowful smile to Michonne. She handed Rick a long necked bottle. He declined with a hand.

"It's non-alcoholic. Must be for you. I didn't see a letter with your name on it, though."

"I got mine already," Rick said thinking of the box he'd found in Shane's closet.

Rosita looked back at the bar. It would help her not to cry if she didn't have to look at Rick when she said, "Sorry about your friend, sheriff. He was a good man." She was upset for another reason though. She turned back to Rick. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Rick could see she needed to speak with him in private. He asked his girlfriend to excuse him and walked to a secluded spot by the bathrooms.

"What's going on with Backwoods?" Rosita got right to the point. "I'm worried about him. At first, I could tell he was upset about the whole situation, but now he's just acting weird… and I'm not even talking about what happened with T-Dog."

"Weird how?"

"I can't really put it into words but I can tell, he's hiding something from me." She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling forced to speak her truth out loud for the first time. "A woman can always tell when the man she loves is hiding something," she barely mumbled.

Rick's mind instantly went to Michonne and his own secrets. He spied her consoling Maggie as his sister attempted a brave face. "But you don't have a clue what that somethin' might be?"

It pained her to admit it. "No. I don't." Still she persisted. "You've got to keep an eye on him, sheriff. I know there's a lot on your plate right now. House gossip is, you got a call from Monroe last night."

Rick tensed and lied, "Just a routine chewin' out. You know how she gets."

Rosita didn't seem convinced. "Did you know, I knew my great grandmother, Rick? She prayed the rosary day in and day out. Once Guadalupe granted her a vision while she babysat me. I didn't see the Holy Virgin, only a bright light. But since then, I know things. My bisabuela says I was touched by her light… Guadalupe's. So I know when something ain't right." She doubled back to her main focus, voice cracking from worry, "Please protect Daryl. He is a good man too… and we're losing too many."

Rosita stomped away full of emotions. Unable to tell her anything comforting, Rick let her go. He did an about-face to rejoin Michonne but she was already on her way to him.

"Is she okay?" Michonne asked after Deputy Espinoza as she swept a stray curl behind Rick's ear.

"Yeah. She'll be okay." He grabbed her attending hand and brought it to his lips. "What about you? How are you feelin'?"

"I'm still feeling pretty decent. I don't know what my mother puts in that tea…"

"No," he said, pulling her into his arms. He rocked her as he closed his eyes and spoke into her cheek, "How are you _feelin'_?"

"I was just having a chat with Glenn. He was telling me how close you and Shane were. I want you to know that I love you, Rick. I know there's gonna be a void in your life now and I know I can't fill it. But Hershel says…"

"We can squeeze the void." Rick finished her sentence, having heard that wisdom from Hershel before.

She lifted her head off his chest and looked into his eyes. "Yeah. Squeeze the void. Build around it." She smiled cupping his masculine jaw in her hands. "There's nothing I want more than for us to heal and build together."

Rick couldn't help himself. He delivered a slow, chaste kiss to her lips. "I've been keepin' somethin' from you. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to take it the wrong way." He paused and mirrored her smiling face.

"Tell me anything, baby. Anything."

"In the letter Shane left me, he said… he said he worried about me all the time. I used to always think of him as my baby brother. A little clumsy, reckless, hard-headed baby brother. But here he was worrying about me. He said that he saw me and you together and he knew I was in good hands. He said seeing us together made him realize that he didn't have to hold my hand anymore." Rick laughed, "He specified 'not in a gay way'."

Michonne laughed too. "So that's what he got from that beat down I gave him," she said shamefully, still mortified by her actions..

"I think that was the major realization. Shane said, there it was, a heavy day. But he could tell there was a lightness to me that he'd never seen."

Michonne studied Rick's clean cut face. Tracing his jawline with her index finger, his lips with her thumb. She was overcome hearing Shane's observation. And though they were in the midst of another heavy day, she witnessed the very lightness he'd described, settled over her man like the glimmer in snow.

She kissed him now. Another small innocent peck that made him feel like there was no one else there.

So many times in that very place, Shane had cheered for Rick to go home with some random woman. The few times Rick took his advice for a one night stand, Shane had mixed feelings.

He wanted his friend to live a little. Find a little happiness. But he also knew Rick deserved more than a _little_ happiness. Or to just be invited into some woman's bed.

He deserved to be invited into someone's life, someone's heart. Unfortunately, none of those women deserved a heart as open as his. It was something Shane always admired about his best friend.

Rick was brave enough to love and love hard. Brave enough to acknowledge what he felt for Michonne even in the worst circumstances. Brave enough to hold the hand of a mother in pain, weathering it all until she invited him into her life.

And Rick was brave enough to see how weak he was without her. "The first time I saw you, I thought I was gonna be the one to help you. Take care of you."

"We're taking care of each other, Rick."

He smiled at her humble naivete. She had no idea the force she was. "I have something else to tell you too," he sighed. "Monroe called me last night. Asked for my resignation."

Michonne was taken aback. "What! Rick, no! Can you fight her? This isn't fair."

"She said that Shane's suicide makes a terrible PR situation a hundred times worse for the department. And she's right."

"But none of this is your fault."

"It's okay, Michonne. First thing, come new year, Carol is gonna replace me. That was my only stipulation. She'll get the opportunity to do a better job than I could've ever done. It's an opportunity she'd never get by election."

Rick looked over at Carol reading her letter from Shane, wiping away a stream of tears. "She'll impress everyone and by the time there's another election, she'll win by a landslide no matter who her opponent is."

"But what about you, Rick? You love what you do."

"I love you more. Much more. I love Carl more than any badge, too. So I'm gonna focus on us and my son."


	24. Chapter 24: Marvin Was Right- Part 1

Marvin Was Right: Part One

Carl bobbed and weaved his head as he walked through the crowded hall. His locker was just ahead and from a distance he could make out pages of some sort taped to the metal door. As he got closer, he noticed kids snickering and staring at him.

The images were of half naked Instagram models- squatting to twerk, legs wide open in provocative poses- only their faces had been digitally photoshopped with Michonne's face. Someone talented had taken their time and resources to exploit a woman that was only known because of her public tragedy, just to get a few laughs.

Before, Carl would have been offended on his own behalf. But now that he knew Michonne a little better, the part of him that was Rick Grimes felt duty bound to see justice come to these heartless bullies.

He ripped the pictures down, balled them up and marched to the trash can with a stiff arm and clenched fist. He was silent though, even as Lucien, Spencer and Jax sputtered out their wicked laughter.

For the second time that day, Michonne's face greeted him. Instead of skin tight club wear and cleavage like the earlier prank, she wore a simple pair of black jeans and a cream-colored turtleneck. Half her hair up in a ponytail, the rest cascading over her shoulders.

She was a simple woman. Not some caricature of society like his tormentors imagined her. Beautiful with a bare face and smile.

Sedoku and a cup of lemon ginger tea were her go to's in the morning. A highlighter and a stack of books about forgiveness, healing and growth kept her company when his dad was at work. Carl had overheard her say that she was determined to come out of this storm stronger. Most days of the week she went to some kind of support group or a session with Hershel.

Carl gave some thought to how brave and strong she was to open up about her grief to others, instead of knocking off a bottle of wine like his mom did after an argument with Philip. He wondered how he would be received by others if he revealed how his bullies, including his mother and Philip, made him feel inside. But he was nowhere near being brave enough for that yet.

Carl tossed Michonne a "hey" crafted to sound aloof, but really he was eager to hear her ask,

"How was your day?"

Not that he would tell her. Still it was vastly more warm than his mother's regular after school greeting, 'help your sister with her homework, then do your own'.

"Fine," he lied and pulled a soda from the fridge. Striving to be as nonchalant as possible, he avoided eye contact behind a swig of his soft drink after he returned the question to her.

Despite his careless pretense, Michonne could gather that he was making an effort. She smiled at him over her book. He couldn't see the warmth in her smile but he could hear the comforting quality of her voice. "Everything's fine. Good news. Your dad will be home any minute."

"Why?"

"He wants to spend a little time with you. I think you guys are going hunting." Michonne didn't call attention to the way the boy's face lit up. "A little father and son quality time."

Carl's smile diminished somewhat. "You're not coming?"

"Nope. It's just you two."

"You can come if you want. You ever been hunting?"

A brief memory of her childhood sprang up in her mind. Her daddy's strong hands and terse voice. The smell of dead leaves and the distinct taste of blood on her tongue. She quickly buried that moment under her present life.

"Guns make me nervous," she answered with a downturned mouth. "Besides, if I tag along, I can't have dinner ready when you come back. I'm making chicken alfredo. How does that sound?"

They exchanged knowing looks. Chicken alfredo was his favorite. The prospect of quality time with his dad and Michonne's cooking made Carl feel like his terrible day could be salvageable. But he kept his gratitude quiet and responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I'll be in the shed pulling out the gear."

Michonne watched the boy head out towards the back yard. Each gave the other a sweet parting glance through the kitchen's sliding glass door. A perfect metaphor for the barrier between them.

It was one that could be easily pushed aside. A little courage and trust was all they needed. But at least now they could see the person on the other side much more clearly.

Carl pulled a large plastic bin from under the garden shed's table. He inspected the zipped compartments and pockets of the stuffed duffle inside it, making sure everything was ready. He tried to stay focused but his thoughts kept reverting back to the public humiliation he'd suffered that day.

A rogue sob escaped him. Thinking of his mother's reaction to his tears had she been there, he tried to suppress the anger and hurt bubbling up in his throat. He thought to himself, _There's never any punishment for bad behavior._

Even his tactless outbursts toward Michonne had been met with kindness and understanding. Remembering the disappointed look on her face every time he ignored her or snapped at her released a torrent from his eyes. She didn't deserve any of that from him.

He wanted to go in and apologize. Tell her how important she was to their home. How comforting it was to hear her voice and smell her scent. He wanted to tell her that everything his dad was doing for her was right and that she should be protected at all costs.

He wanted to tell her but he couldn't. Carl felt ashamed that when his classmates used Michonne to get to him, he took the insults personally instead of recognizing that she was the one they were disrespecting.

He should've been more like his father. A protector. Someone who stood up for what's right.

Carl moved toward the rifle safe next. The tall metal box in the corner of the shed. He stared for a moment at the guns inside it's shatter-proof glass. Before he could tie his shoes, his daddy taught him how to load a gun and how to shoot.

And Rick always taught his son that life is sacred. That being in control of anything that could take a life required a person to give the proper respect. Whether they were hunting, building a bonfire, cutting cake or in a canoe on the lake, thoughtful consideration was always stressed by the safety-conscious sheriff.

The guns inside that safe were for feeding and protecting the family, Carl knew. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that family now included Michonne. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that penance for his ignorant attitude toward her could rightly be paid by punishing those who would never repent like he had.

Soon enough father and son were headed out on foot into the acres of woods near their home.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"Michonne is nice. I know I've been kind of a jerk to her.. And to you."

Through the bare tree tops above them, the setting sun beamed across both of their faces. Rick, surprised and elated. Carl, reflective and determined. "I'm gonna make it up to her."

This was the son Rick knew. The brown-haired cherub that used to do chores without being asked. The sweetheart of a kid who hid Lori's inedible casserole in a napkin by his plate and still thanked her for dinner before bed. Rick looked at his boy and wrestled with a sigh of relief, hoping that the son he raised was coming back to him.

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it, son."

"I know you haven't been proud of me lately, dad. I know I let you down…"

Rick put a comforting arm around his boy. "It's okay, Carl. Your life has changed a lot. Takes time to adjust."

"I always try to be brave like you. But I don't think you passed that part of yourself on to me." Carl's voice strained with disappointment.

"Don't say that, Carl. It takes courage to say you were wrong. And even more courage to make wrongs right. But we can conquer evil with the good, son. That's in all of us."

Carl was doubtful. Maybe evil needed to be met with something equally ugly. If doing something wrong for love meant stopping hate, couldn't that be a win for the good side?

 _Criminals carry guns and so do cops,_ Carl reasoned. _The good guys and the bad guys have the same weapons. No matter how we conquer evil, once it's gone, the only thing left is good._

….

The next morning Carl woke up more exhausted than usual from hiking through the woods with his father. He snoozed his alarm for five more minutes, but didn't wake up again for nearly thirty. It was finally Michonne's tapping at his door that made him realize he'd overslept.

She paused her cheerful humming to inquire, "Carl? You up?" A groggy sounding half word was his answer. Michonne opened the door and found him sitting up rubbing his eyes. "You're going to be late."

"I know. I'll never make the bus in time."

"Don't worry. I'll drop you off on my way to Hershel's." She left him to get ready and went right back to the melody stuck in her head.

The nostalgic beat of Marvin Gaye's I _nner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)_ had been gratuitously scatting over her lips all morning. The song from the early 70's rebuked the economic disparities of the ghetto.

Growing up middle class, Michonne never worried about where her next meal was coming from. But growing up black, shopping with her mother in middle class stores alongside blond middle class families, made it plain that Marvin was right. Her race always got an extra helping of hang ups, let downs, bad breaks and setbacks.

The lyrics she sang were not about a happy subject. But still it made Michonne smile and took her back to childhood sleepovers at her best friend's. Thanks to Sasha's mom, the weekend soundtrack always featured the Prince of Motown.

And this particular morning, Michonne's thoughts featured Sasha. It was odd to her that she couldn't get her estranged friend off her mind.

She took Hershel's advice to be thankful for the good times in her past because, back then, it was the little things. _And it always will be the little things,_ he'd told her.

Like the guaranteed morning call from Rick sending her good day vibes and love.

"Mornin', sweetheart." His gravelly voice brought the sun out in her world and reminded her of the playful sex they rushed to get in before he had to leave.

"Hey."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Carl overslept but I'm going to take him in a bit."

"Thank you, Michonne." Rick wanted to say more in gratitude for what she was to their lives, but there were no words big and bright enough. "Maggie says you're gonna start volunteering at the women's shelter."

"Yeah." Michonne smiled with a bit of trepidation. "At the daycare while the mother's are at work." She had a few jitters when it came to going out in the community to help. She didn't quite know what to expect. But Maggie told her how much good she could do and she decided to give it a try.

She decided to give something else a try. Andre would draw pictures for her and put them in her work bag or coat pockets to find. Those little pieces of scrap paper seemed to always come at the right time because she would always find them when she was having a really bad day.

She knew for Carl, every day at his new school was hard on him. So as she stood at the kitchen island talking to Rick she was doodling a stick-figure 'Carl' inside a lopsided heart on the refrigerator pad. She scribbled a message: 'To make your day sweeter' and taped it to a Big Kat bar from her secret stash.

"Babe, I'm so proud of you." Rick was so happy to watch her grow and seek out paths to her own happiness, it filled his chest with a warm vibration.

Michonne smiled, basking in her partner's praise as she opened up Carl's bookbag. She moved some things around inside to find a spot to place the candy and note. What she saw made her jump back in shock and a gasp stole the air from her lungs.

His father's hand gun, wedged between his notebooks.

She could hear Rick's warm happy voice come through the phone, but it was drowned out by the smoking revolutions screeching through her mind. Worry and sadness made her shake. She had no time to come up with a plan of action because just then Carl entered the kitchen.

"Rick, baby. I've got to go. I'll call you back in a bit. I love you. Bye." Michonne rushed off the phone. And stood there holding her thumping heart.

"Okay. I'm ready." Carl dragged himself across the kitchen and plopped himself into a chair at the breakfast table. He looked up to see Michonne's face, stunned and still. "What?" Completely oblivious, an awkward half chuckle was followed with another curious, "What?"

And now, for the first time since she lost her baby, she pleaded with something or someone unseen to help her. Not just the typical 'Oh, God' that comes on a reflex. Michonne beseeched the creator of the child in front of her. She asked for an endowment of wisdom to snatch him out of the fires it seemed he couldn't keep from starting for himself.

Even as her intestines quaked with the ferocity of her plea, it was not lost on her that she never did this for her own flesh and blood. She always relied on her own power. The solitary counsel of her own limited experience. Always self-satisfied that the boy she was raising was extraordinary. And that she had done it on her own.

It made the loss of him even heavier, because she had done that alone as well. Until Rick somehow inserted himself under that yoke. Maybe it was a societal sponsored grooming that deluded her into even considering some invisible force. But she couldn't deny that, looking into the face that so resembled her newfound love, she needed God to be real and attentive right now.

"Carl," she began with a swallow. "What are you going to do?"

He finally grasped the heaviness of her composure. He panicked. Immediately, he remembered what was in the bag and shot to snatch it from her hands.

In the middle of the night, Carl had a change of heart.

His plan was to get up early and put the weapon back before school. But without the torment of his conscience pricking him, he slept too soundly. Now, the main person he wanted to protect was looking at him with a pained expression for answers he didn't want to give.

"Carl, what are you going to do?"

"Nothing! I swear… nothing."

"You're taking a gun to school?"

"No!"

"You have a gun in your backpack…"

"I know! I was! I was… but last night I couldn't sleep. I changed my mind." Carl's voice went soft as tears began to flow. "I couldn't do it. I knew it wasn't right."

"Why would you even…"

He cut her off, anger mixing with confusion and pain. "Because they deserve it! Some people only want to hurt other people! Some people deserve to be shut up forever! The world doesn't need them!"

"But what about _you_ , Carl?" Michonne asked tenderly. She approached him slowly, but not in fear. Reaching up to the boy who stood a few inches taller, she cupped his red cheeks in her hands. "The world needs _you_. Your mom, your dad. Hurting yourself can't heal the world."

"I know. I'm sorry you found that, but I don't know what else to do. No one understands. Dad doesn't know what it's like. Everybody loves him. My mom doesn't want to hear me complain."

"I told you before, Carl, you can talk to me. Trust me, I know what it's like not fitting in."

"No. I can't. You have your own problems. You don't need to worry about some kid that's not even…" he trailed off, "I'm not your problem!" Carl turned away from her, humiliated in her presence.

Gently, she turned him back to face her. He wouldn't look at her, though. His eyes downcast, his posture rigid. Michonne didn't want to overstep, but this child needed more than a hug. She wasn't his mother. She had no authority there. But she was sure Rick wouldn't object to what she had in mind.

She'd suggested this to Carl before and he'd rudely shot it down. But what if this moment gained her a little more leeway with the boy? She had to try. And hopefully when she explained everything to Rick, this day would have a happy ending.

"No, Carl. You're not my problem." Her face broke into a sympathetic smile. "But, I hope you know I'm your friend." He was silent. "Would you do me a favor? Let's forget Woodbury for the day. Would you come with me to see Hershel? Just this once." She quickly attached a promise. "If you don't feel better afterward, I won't suggest it again. What do you think? Would that be okay?"

She watched his face twitch, mulling it over. He started shaking his head. Carl didn't think it would help. But he'd come so close to letting her down, to letting down his dad. He'd wanted a way to say he was sorry...

He fell into Michonne's embrace as he nodded. "Okay. I'll go."


	25. Chapter 25: Marvin Was Right- Part 2

(Trigger warnings: brief mention of sexual assault)

Marvin Was Right: Part Two

Sasha sat dazed in the kitchen of the stately all brick townhouse. She sneered at the high end white cabinets and marble countertops, but the scribbled colors stuck to the fridge made her remember her little budding artist, gone too soon.

She sobbed and wiped her wrist across her wet eyes. The razor sharp butcher's blade from the knife block glared briefly under the halogen lights. The cordless phone on the table lit up green as it warbled again and again, urgently ringing. But Sasha couldn't hear it.

Mentally, she was back at the frat house the night of Mason's party. She could still feel the shock of cool air on her thighs when her jeans were yanked down. She could still hear the bass from the floor below her as the entire party danced to 'Party Rock Anthem'. She could still see the picture of her attacker between his uppercrust parents in the photo on his dresser while he held her down.

Presently, a muffled whimper from the other side of the table made her focus again on the other occupant of the room. She pushed her chair back and stood up, her eyes narrowed with disgust. Raising her weapon, she wordlessly repeated her threat before she untied the scarf knotted at the back of his head.

Robbie Vogt swallowed hard as he trembled under her gaze. He spoke cautiously, barely audible over the trilling of the telephone. "I have a family. A wife and kids…"

Sasha interrupted him. "I know you do. A pretty wife. A boy and a girl. An entire pediatric practice with your name on it. Doctor Robert Vogt… do people call you Robert now," she asked, mocking his guise in the community.

"Guess what I have? Nothing. No family," Sasha shrugged. "No kids. I don't have anything thanks to you. And I never will."

Everywhere she tried to find love, it seemed to be a mirage. Things that should have fit perfectly were always ill-formed and uncomfortable. Michonne didn't want her and in hindsight, Sasha could understand why. As broken as she was, she didn't deserve a woman like Michonne.

Not that Rick did either… but she could see how his steady character was more inviting than her hot-blooded nature.

Her best friend's words kept coming back to her,

 _"We both know what this is really about. A hundred convictions on these cops won't heal what's hurting you as long as Robbie Vogt is out there living his life unpunished."_

Raj told her the same thing when their short-lived little romance fizzled. They'd gotten in an argument and she trashed his apartment in a rage. She never told him about what happened to her all those years ago. But it didn't take a crystal ball for him to see that some past trauma had her in a cage of anger.

 _"You're a goddess, queen. Powerful. The original woman."_ Raj had told her before he ended things between them. _"But if you don't find what's broken inside you, you'll never be able to use that power for anything but ruin."_

So she sank inside herself, in a dark place. Like a predator in the shadows waiting for its prey. She stalked and sniffed the good doctor out. She found him in his cozy life and sank her teeth into him. Now all she had to do was eat him whole.

Since she ambushed him at his door, Robbie Vogt had time to think. Time to place her in his memory. Time to realize what this was all about. Time to remember exactly what he'd done to her. Time to hope that the incessant ringing of the phone would buy him a little more... time.

"I don't know what to say…"

"What could you say? What words are you gonna say to me to give me my fucking life back?."

"Please!" He shouted in desperation, 'You don't have to do this!"

Sasha leaned into his face, just as desperate and shouted right back. "And you didn't have to do what you did… did you? You didn't have to do what you fucking did!"

Robbie broke down in tears. The escalating tension made him focus on the phone now more than ever.

"White people never **_have_** to do what they do. You didn't _**have**_ to pack ships with black bodies and enslave them in a distant land! You didn't **_have_** to whip us and hang us from trees! You didn't **_have_** to attack Tulsa because we were thriving. You didn't _**have**_ to sick us with dogs and spray us with fire hoses when all we wanted was to be treated like human beings…"

Robbie had heard enough. The phone went silent and the quaking he'd succumbed to vanished when he barked back. "I DIDN'T DO ANY OF THOSE THINGS! You're talking about things that happened before you and I were born! What happened between us was an innocent mistake. I thought you liked me… we were both buzzed… I never owned any slaves or lynched anybody or... "

Sasha quieted him. "NO!" Her chest pumped furiously as she tried to keep herself from crying. "You only took advantage of a drunk girl with a crush. And then took advantage of a system where people who look like you will always be privileged with society's good graces."

"Sasha!" The amplified voice of Captain Dawn Lerner came through a bullhorn from the street just outside Robbie's house. A tiny little brunette stood behind a barricade crying into her palms worried to tears for her husband's safety. "Sasha, we're trying to talk to you. Please just pick up the phone. We can talk about this and make sure everybody has a life after this."

Sasha scoffed. Captain Lerner hadn't said anything believable the first time she called Doctor Vogt's house trying to convince her to release him. Sasha was done talking. She gripped the knife handle tighter.

"Sasha, I know you don't want to talk to me," Dawn said. "But I have your friend here with me.  
Will you please answer the phone?"

Hearing that made Sasha a little more attentive, expectant.

"Please talk to them," Robbie pleaded.

"Shut the fuck up!" Sasha tried to get a peek outside through the window at the top of the front door without being seen. Suddenly the phone tolled again, startling her.

As she went to it, she glared at her captive's audacity to try and hurry her along. "Hello?"

"Sasha?"

It was not the voice she expected, still, oddly enough, she was relieved to hear it.

"Superman…" she chuckled hopelessly into the line. "You can't save me, dude."

A wistful smile curled Rick's lips. "I know. Because you're gonna save yourself."

"When the captain said she had 'my friend' with her, I didn't think she meant you."

"Why not? I'm your friend. I've eaten lo mein on your couch... I've got your number saved in my phone. Under a nickname and everythang."

"Nickname?"

"Lex Luthor." They both laughed nervously and a thick pause hung between them.

"What are you doing here, Rick? Michonne tell you to come…"

"Michonne doesn't know anything about this yet. She's at therapy. Nowhere near a TV. So you've gotta let that guy go and come out, so when she does hear about this it'll be a happy endin'."

"Happy ending? I've got a white doctor at knifepoint. I already know I'm going out like Cleo."

"Who's Cleo?"

Sasha shook her head. "Just another black woman that you wouldn't understand."

"Okay… how's this for understandin' black women," Rick prompted. "The doctor has three other women accusing him of rape. Black women just like you. They saw this happenin' on the news and they called in to Lerner's precinct."

Sasha was stunned. "How many women have you done this to?" She kicked Robbie's chair, demanding an answer.

"You were the last one. I swear. I was young and stupid back then. I'm a different person now."

"Oh fuck you! That is bullshit! People like you don't change…"

"Sash…" Rick reclaimed her attention and spoke with a low, calming tone, "I know you feel like you couldn't tell anyone… that no one would believe you. You've been trying to live life like this never happened. That hasn't worked. You try to take out your anger on anyone else who fits his description, no matter how vaguely. That hasn't worked."

Holding the phone in one hand, the knife in the other, she paced the room shaking her head. As much as she didn't want to hear what Rick was saying, she felt validated listening to him.

"You feel like the only way to get over this is to take matters into your own hands. Because you're a warrior. But you shouldn't have to be. You shouldn't have to suffer just to have some semblance of a happy endin'. But that's the way it is, Sash. That's the reality."

Rick sighed, his heart heavy with all the things he'd seen in his time on the force. "Do you know how many women I find beaten, violated… murdered. And I ask myself, what the fuck is wrong with the world… because odds are… the women I'm called to protect... overwhelmingly look like you. They look like Michonne. They rarely talk to me. They never press charges. But I can see it in their eyes. They're always one bad day away from snappin'."

"Exactly! So why shouldn't I just do what I came here to do?" She grit her teeth. "Gut this motherfucker like a pig. Watch him bleed out."

"Because you _can_ have a happy endin'. Even now," Rick said. Even as Captain Lerner's expression betrayed her skepticism of a peaceful outcome and her crisis team looked eager to bring this whole standoff to an end, bloodshed or not.

"Sounds good, Rick. I see how you have Michonne living in a fairytale. But if I don't do it, this piece of shit will get away with it."

"It's not a fairytale, Sasha. Dammit," the sheriff vehemently shouted. "Look, I heard him confess. He just said you were the last one. I'll testify. I'll make sure you have the best lawyers. I promise you, I swear. I'm gonna do everythang I can to make sure you're okay. Just please… please come on out here, now."

Hearing the conviction and tenderness in his voice, Sasha was truly touched. But she decided not to let it move her. "Just worry about my best friend. Just take care of her when I'm gone."

"No, Sasha. No!" Rick's fingers flew across his cellphone screen, searching. A quick scroll. A tap. Music. Marvin Gaye. "Just listen… listen to this…"

The chatter of a jive-talking crowd. The soulful run of trumpets.

"Remember your mom used to love this song?" As he spoke, he prayed this would work. "Michonne told me your mom had a serious thing for this guy. I heard y'all used to sing this song together cleanin' the house on a Saturday mornin'. Michonne would 'try' to sing it too."

Sasha wiped her tears as the melody coming from the receiver took her back to those happy times. "Your girlfriend can't hold a note to save her life," she reminisced with a sad chuckle. No matter how off key, Michonne's was the one voice that always made Sasha happy.

"Would you sing for me?" Rick asked, at the end of his rope. "Might as well be your swan song… especially If you're goin' out like Queen Latifah in that movie where they rob banks…" His forehead was slick with sweat as he jokingly touted his knowledge of the black all-female cast. The anxious grin on his face was heard by Sasha on the other end of the phone. "Come on, Sash. I'll sing it with you."

Trying to coax the young woman out of despair and into optimism, he mumbled out the lyrics and let the late singer carry the harmony of the second verse.

 _"Father, father…"_

Sasha thought, what the hell. She loved to sing and she couldn't say no to Marvin, Michonne, her mommy and those memories. Robbie Vogt sat dumbfounded when she closed her eyes and sang.

 _"We don't need to escalate._

 _War is not the answer._

 _For only love can conquer hate."_

The buttered fluidity of her vocals amazed Rick yet again. How such a fiery vessel could hold such a heavenly gift, he found a mystery. He didn't attempt to make another sound. He just let her be in that moment with those healing words.

 _"You know we've got to find a way,_

 _To bring some loving here today."_

Rick turned to Captain Lerner and whispered, "I can get her out of there safe if you let me go in."

"No chance in hell," she told him bluntly. "You're doing just fine out here. It was pure professional courtesy that got you on the phone with her in the first place, but this is still my jurisdiction."

Rick's jaw tensed in frustration. He looked the captain in the eye as he listened to Sasha vocalize. Dawn meant business and he knew she would not take any challenge to her authority lightly. But he'd be damned if he was going to let this situation go left so she could save face.

"Arrest me," he finally said, defying jurisdiction. Rick began a march toward the house.

Dawn spoke into her walkie, commanding her officers nearest the residence to detain the sheriff. Two left their positions and approached Rick, posturing on the offensive. The death-glare they received from him stopped them in their tracks.

He walked right by them as their superior's voice ordered them sharply through their comms. Twisting the knob on their devices to mute her, they watched Rick slowly push open the front door.

In the large foyer, he scanned the living room and dining room with no sign of Sasha or Robbie. The song in his pocket had ended and there was an eerie silence in the halls. He cautiously called her name. When she didn't answer, he moved ahead toward the back of the house.

Sasha sat in the kitchen's window seat, framed by crown moulding and matching drapes and bench cushions. In all the room's bright splendor, she was bent double, languishing in her gloom.

The knife still in her hand, she rocked back and forth repeating, "What's going on? What's going on? What's going on?" None of the flowery notes from before. Just her shuddering, hollow voice questioning the state of things as they stood.

Her best friend seemed like a stranger. Her innocent godson died a violent death and no one was being held accountable. She was holding a man hostage at knifepoint with a swat team poised to cut her down in a hail of bullets. If only someone could just explain to her what was going on.

The young doctor glimpsed the figure of someone else in the room. He roused from his own private reflections, begging hysterically for help.

When Sasha noticed Rick standing there, hands up and pity on his face, her mood changed on a dime. Jumping to her feet, she lodged the blade snugly at the doctor's neck.

"You're not going to talk me out of this, Rick." Her voice was steady and strong. "You got your song, now leave me the hell alone. I'm getting justice today. You may have talked Michonne out of doing what needs to be done…"

"The only thing that needs to be done today is some understandin'. I understand your hurtin'. I understand you deserve justice. But I'm here, Sasha. I'm here for you."

Rick thought for a second. As much as this situation wasn't about him, he thought maybe she needed to understand him as well. Maybe if she did, she could at least begin to trust him.

"Did you know I'm gettin' fired?" He watched her face change at the news. "Yeah. Well, technically, I'm resignin'. But they're forcin' me to. Because of what happened to Andre. And my best friend… I don't know if you heard, one of the deputies involved in Andre's death, he killed himself."

Rick's eyes watered.

"I carry it like a ton of bricks everyday. My son… he's… well, he's been headin' to a dark place. I been tryin' to point him towards the light, but I'm not sure if I can. I love Michonne so much but I have to keep things from her to keep her from being hurt anymore, and it's takin' a toll on us." His sincerity weighed down his tongue with country twang. "It's takin' a toll on the one thang in my life that's a sure thang."

"You poor white American man…" Sasha mocked him bitterly, although inside she sympathized with the pressure he was under.

It was odd, but hearing about the strain in their relationship made her heart go out to them. She realized that she really only wanted Michonne to be happy. No matter who she was with.

"The point is if I didn't care about you… I got enough on my plate. These days I could go in any direction and have my ass handed to me. I wouldn't be here if I didn't care."

His eyes, glassy and fretful, convinced her. She was this close to giving in. But she'd seen enough arrests to know that a face full of pavement and a knee in the back was waiting for her if she surrendered. More than the prospect of physical abuse, public humiliation knotted her stomach.

"I don't want to go to jail, Rick. I don't want to… I don't want them to hurt me."

"No one's gonna hurt you, Sasha. I won't let them," Rick swore. "Just put the knife down. We'll walk out together."

Sasha's brow was bunched and her eyes matched the sheriff's. She looked past him to the front door, scared to death of what awaited her. She looked at Robbie and her anger started to build that he was seeing her in this vulnerable moment.

"Don't think about him," Rick said, almost as if he could read her mind. "Just leave him… just come with me."

When Sasha walked out of Doctor Vogt's house shadowing the sheriff. He led her along holding her hand.

"We'll take over from here, Sheriff Grimes," said one of Captain Lerner's officers. The big dark haired man reached for his cuffs and Sasha at the same time.

"Why don't you head on in there and put those on the doctor. Ms. Williams is gonna be pressing charges against him for sexual assault. You can meet us at the station for her statement."

...

By the time Rick got home to Michonne, the reports of Sasha's standoff were more about the upstanding doctor's indiscretions than her attempt at vigilantism. Rick had stayed with her through booking and processing. Before he left he put the fear of god in everyone on duty that she be extended every courtesy, as if she were a member of his family. He had no doubt, they'd comply.

Michonne was thankful to Rick beyond words. She was almost too stunned to speak. But the more she thought about it, the more she had to admit to herself that Sasha's actions were not surprising.

Tears streaked her cheeks as she thought about the private hell Sasha had been in all these years. She couldn't wait to visit her best friend and tell her how proud she was that she trusted someone enough to lay down her anger. Rick, of all people.

And it wasn't lost on her that Rick was able to talk her down because he had listened religiously to all her stories. So he knew her and because he knew her he knew Sasha.

By the time Michonne was through telling Rick about her day, he sat just as stunned as she had. Carl wouldn't open up to Hershel, but the old timer's farm also provided equine therapy. Hershel had seen it work with plenty of kids over the years.

The empathic nature of horses almost always had a calming effect on his patients. Watching the boy's interactions with Sadie, the speckled mare, told Hershel more than he would have learned from any verbal response from Carl.

While Michonne walked the farm grounds, sticking to the barns to stave off the cold, Rick's son was using the coarse bristles of a grooming brush to settle his temper instead of a gun. Nurturing a peaceful living thing instead of using violence against contempt.

Rick's son contemplating doing something so reckless, made the sheriff feel like the whole world was falling apart. But the coincidence of Michonne being there for Carl while he was protecting Sasha also gave him the feeling that all the shattered pieces were falling into place.

As Michonne curled up under him in their bed, Rick kissed the top of her head. "Look at us babe," he said, feeling confident to face anything with her. "We make a good team. You keepin' score? Marvin was right. Love, two. Hate, zip."


End file.
